Anywhere
by FerryBerry
Summary: ON HIATUS. Rachel puts her heart on the line, and Quinn is there to catch her. Three years later, they may finally receive the chance to pick up where they left off.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All belongs to _Glee_ writers and creators. '_Anywhere_' belongs to Evanescence.

**A/N:** Another spur-of-the-moment thing that I hate and I expect much mocking in your reviews. I normally don't like putting in song lyrics, but they're there and the song is available on YouTube. I'm almost done with the next chapter of 'The Choice I Make' so keep an eye out. Peace out, y'all.

**Prologue**

It's the last day of school, the last meeting of glee. Well, not the last for Mr. Schue or the two juniors, three sophomores, and the freshman who have joined since the beginning of the year. But this is the last for us seniors, thirteen in number, and Schue is letting us have our own special session of glee for our last meet.

No juniors, no sophomores, no freshmen. Just us.

It's hard to believe there were only five at the beginning of this sorry little club—and I wasn't even one of them. But it's nice to know that I asked Brittany and (bullied) Santana to join and that it helped glee survive. I don't know what I would've done without it these past three years.

Mercedes keeps squeezing my hand, telling me without words just how happy and sad she is. We know this is probably the last time we'll see each other for a while except for graduation, so I squeeze back to let her know I'll miss her, too. And I will. She's been more of a sister to me than my real one, and I've appreciated her more than I can say. I hope how I don't let go of her hand as we sit tells her.

Kurt is already crying, and because of that, so is Brittany. She's burying her face in Santana's shoulder, and I know that San wants to cry, too. But, like me, she won't let herself. We're the tough girls of the group, after all, the head cheerleaders and head bitches. We leave the crying to the other girls. And Mr. Schue.

Kurt snuggles into Mercedes, who squeezes my hand one more time before abandoning it to pet his hair. I wait for Mr. Schue to speak, but he seems content to look at us with tears in his eyes, a small smile quirking his lips.

He echoes my thoughts when he finally speaks, "There were only five of you when this club started." His mouth twitches to widen his smile, but stops halfway through. "Now look at you."

I can't help but smile. Yeah, look at us. Nationals winners two years in a row now, eight members stronger than we were three years ago—and that's just in our grade.

My smile fades into an eye roll when I see Sam and Puck both shooting me puppy dog looks. It's been two years since those mistakes, too, and I wish they'd both get a grip. Even Finn has, and he's probably the biggest idiot of all the guys in our club. Save for Mike, maybe.

I see Finn rub Rachel's shoulder and they exchange a small smile. They're just good friends now, and I like it better that way. Rachel looks miserable when she turns away, her lips curved downward and her eyes red—even her brilliant hair seems dulled—and I feel sympathy for her. Who knew that glee would become such a huge part of all of us?

When Mercedes sniffles next to me, I realize I've been staring at Rachel through Mr. Schue's whole speech. I swivel back around, ignoring the blush creeping up my neck.

"…whatever you do in your lives after high school, you'll always remember glee." Mr. Schue smiles brokenly, and there are a few nods of agreement amongst us.

Tina is now sobbing in Artie's lap. Mr. Schue pulls out a handkerchief and no one judges him when he wipes his eyes.

"All right, since this is our last day, I thought I'd let you guys decide what you want to do. So why don't—"

"Mr. Schuester?"

No one is surprised when it's Rachel who raises her hand and interrupts. But, for once, no one is annoyed, either. It'll be the last time we'll be privileged to hear her voice—and I admit to myself it _is_ a privilege—until we go see her on Broadway. I imagine even Santana is secretly pleased with the opportunity.

"Yes, Rachel?" Mr. Schue prompts, but instead of his usual annoyance, there's fondness in his voice.

"Before we go on, would it be all right if I performed a number?" she asks softly.

I'm suddenly struck by how much she's grown in the last three years. I vividly remember her standing as soon as he prompted her and announcing she had a number to sing, rather than asking so politely, mildly, as she's doing now. I don't know why, but I'm proud of her.

"Of course, go ahead," he says, and sits next to Mike.

Rachel takes a moment to get out of her chair, but then she propels herself from it and stands before us. Her outfit today reminds me of Tina's, if less medieval. It's a black dress, as though she's preparing for a funeral, and she has a belt looped around her slim waist. Her legs stretch on forever. Her hair is in a messy bun, as though she strung it up after rolling out of bed and running the brush through it once. It's nice.

She bites her lip before speaking. "I thought a lot about…what I wanted to sing today. I tried to find something perfect for the occasion. I even listened to the '_Rocky Horror Picture Show_' soundtrack twice."

There are a couple of giggles, and I smirk, remembering how much she detested that movie at Kurt's sleepover last year.

"But I realized that was useless. There's no song in the world that describes how much I love you all," she says, and her voice cracks. Tina sobs in the silence. "No matter what life hands us, you'll always be a part of me. I just wanted to let you know that before I…go on." She drops her gaze to the floor. "There's someone very important to me, in my life."

My stomach clenches and I'm not sure why, but I reach for Mercedes's hand again. She shoots me a worried glance, but gives her hand over without hesitation.

"Someone I've grown to love more than anything. I know this song is a little outdated, but it's dedicated to you. I know you're scared, baby, but I love you and…." Rachel stops, turning away to rub ferociously at her eyes, and I clench Mercedes's hand tighter so I don't run over and hug the broken girl. She turns back slowly, eyes puffy now. "I'll…I'll let the song speak for itself."

She nods to the band and I recognize the chords they play immediately. I know this song, and just knowing what she's about to do makes me want to sob uncontrollably. She's putting her heart on her sleeve, begging, pleading—and I don't know if she'll be turned down or not.

Rachel locks her chocolate eyes onto her target and I squirm a little as her voice burrs the first words.

"_Dear, my love, haven't you wanted to be with me?_

_And dear, my love, haven't you longed to be free?_

_I can't keep pretending that I don't even know you_

_And at sweet night, you are my own_"

I shudder at the familiarity in those last words, the adoration and yearning in them. Tina has gone quiet now, and I wonder if she's still crying. As Rachel's desperate plea continues, though, I forget all about the Goth in Artie's arms.

"_Take my hand_

_We're leaving here tonight_

_There's no need to tell anyone_

_They'd only hold us down_

_So by the morning's light_

_We'll be halfway to anywhere_

_Where love is more than just your name_"

Rachel drops her gaze to the floor again and I feel the loss of that connection resonate through my entire body. But then she wipes her cheeks and lifts her gaze again, eyes filled with tears and voice straining to move past them.

"_I have dreamt of a place for you and I_

_No one knows who we are there_

_All I want is to give my life only to you_

_I've dreamt so long, I cannot dream anymore_

_Let's run away, I'll take you there_"

Mercedes chokes out a sob next to me, and it startles me enough to make me hazard a glance around the room. Mercedes, Kurt, and Tina are back to crying, and when I see Brittany's shoulders shake ahead, I know she is, too. Santana kisses the top of her head, and to my shock, there's a tear rolling down her cheek. The boys all look appropriately depressed, and I swear I see Puck wipe his eyes. Finn alternates between frowning sadly at Rachel and glaring at someone else.

My attention goes right back to Rachel when she continues, snaring me with the depths of her eyes and the broken heart she places before all of us.

"_There's no need to tell anyone_

_They'd only hold us down_

_So by the morning's light_

_We'll be halfway to anywhere_

_Where no one needs a reason_"

Rachel extends her hand, coming toward us, now physically showing us what she is asking. And who she is asking. I shift in my chair, squeezing Mercedes's hand for comfort, but mostly to keep me from lunging across the room and sweeping Rachel up in my arms to protect her from this heartbreak.

"_Forget this life, come with me, don't look back, you're safe now_

_Unlock your heart, drop your guard, no one's left to stop you_

_Forget this life, come with me, don't look back, you're safe now_

_Unlock your heart, drop your guard, no one's left to stop you now_"

She blows the note at the last second, but no one cares, least of all me. The guitar wails and she sobs, her hand still extended but untaken. My throat is thick, making it hard to swallow, and I choke on a sob of my own as something holds me back from her.

"_We're leaving here tonight_

_There's no need to tell anyone_

_They'd only hold us down_

_So by the morning's light_

_We'll be halfway to anywhere_

_Where love is more than just your name._"

The song comes to a close, but no one moves; Rachel is our focus, and she's a statue. She doesn't even try to wipe away her tears anymore, just keeps her hand out, offering her heart and soul with that one movement, putting _everything_ on the line. It's the dumbest, bravest, most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I wonder why I can't move toward her.

"Elizabeth…" Rachel whimpers suddenly.

My gaze shoots to the girl in front of me, the thirteenth member of glee, and I realize that's what's stopping me. This song isn't for me. It would never be for me. I don't know how I got so caught up, but the revelation leaves me breathless, and I sag back into my chair with lifeless limbs as everyone else stares on, waiting for Liz to _do_ something, willing her to.

And it scares me, but I don't know if I want her to say yes or no.

Then Liz takes a deep, shaky breath, not looking at any of us as she says, "Rachel, I…I can't."

Rachel pales as the other girl sobs and then runs from the room, and I want to chase after her and curse her for turning down the best thing that probably ever happened to her, ignoring the fact that none of us even knew they were involved until today. Finn engulfs Rachel in his arms and she weeps and whimpers into his shoulder, and no one else seems to know what to do.

And then Rachel meets my eyes. Her lips set in a thin line—not out of hatred or disgust or anything—but she's resigning herself. I can see it happening and my heart clenches in sympathy.

And I know that if the song had been for me, I wouldn't have said 'no' if my life depended on it.

XXXXXX

I tell Mercedes I'll meet them at the bowling alley later and go off to the bathroom to fix the makeup Rachel completely ruined. She disappeared after we performed '_Don't Stop Believing_' one last time, and I wonder if anyone remembered to text her to ask if she wants to join us. I don't want her alone after that, and so I resolve to text her myself when I get to my car.

I'm just wondering why I suddenly care so much when I hear a sniffle as I enter the bathroom. My heart breaks.

Rachel is huddled into the corner, a paper towel clenched between her fists, and her knees tucked against her chest. It's clear she's been crying pretty much since she left.

I walk closer, stopping at the sinks, because then I'm at a loss. We don't fight anymore; I don't make fun of her. But we're not friends, and probably never will be, I reflect sadly. So I don't know what to do, but I know I want to comfort her just as badly as I did when I saw her pouring her heart out to that bitch only to have it torn to shreds.

I don't know if Rachel even knows I'm standing above her, so I smooth out my Cheerios skirt and ask quietly, "Are you okay?"

I'm hit with something so intense I don't know what to do with it when she meets my eyes. I grasp the sink to anchor myself, the wind knocked out of me, and I'm stunned, because I think she's beautiful. I don't know why now, when she's on the dirty bathroom floor with mascara on her puffy cheeks and her red-rimmed eyes are still pouring tears, and when her hair is pulled into this mess and there's a crumpled paper towel gripped tight in her little fists. But she is gorgeous.

And looking at me like I'm an idiot for asking. I nod in acknowledgement of how stupid that was, because I can't do anything else but gasp for breath.

A few moments of silence pass between us before I'm able to put my vocal cords to use again.

"I'm sorry, Rachel."

She drops her gaze to the paper towel and it's easier for me to think. She nods a little, and says so quietly I wouldn't have heard if the acoustics in the bathroom weren't so great, "Thank you."

I wait again, and then I say what I've been wanting to since I realized it was Elizabeth she was singing to. "I didn't know you were together."

Rachel makes a sound between a scoff and a sob. "She didn't want anyone to know."

Again, silence. But this time she's the one to break it.

"Sometimes I think she was just ashamed of _me_." And again, it's so soft that if it weren't for the acoustics, I wouldn't have heard a word.

It takes me a minute to realize what she's talking about. I guess I've been around Kurt so long that it doesn't occur to me that anyone would be ashamed of being gay. And I bristle thinking of Liz being ashamed of being with Rachel, but I don't say anything for fear of upsetting her more. She probably doesn't want to hear anything bad about her right now, which is why she's in the bathroom instead of with Finn.

"Quinn," Rachel says after such a long time I end up blushing because I've been staring again. She doesn't look at me, though.

"Yes?" I prod gently.

"I'm asking you this…because I know you'll give me an honest answer," she says.

I feel the weight of those words crash down on me like an anvil. The feeling is multiplied when she meets my eyes again and I find it so hard to breathe that I consider looking away, but realize I can't. I nod weakly and she takes a breath.

"Am I really that terrible?" Rachel whimpers, and her voice cracks on the last word. She's already almost crying, as though she's played out my answer in her head.

It takes me a minute again, but then I realize what she's asking. She's asking me if she's that hard to live with that someone had to hide her away and then left her as soon as she opened her heart. She's asking if she's deserved to be treated like shit since the fifth grade. I know the head cheerleader would sneer and say something snarky, and that that's what she's expecting.

But I can't do that. High school is over, and Rachel is beautiful, and she's trusting me in this moment. She's trusting me with her heart and I can't do anything but tell her the truth of what I believe. It slips out before I'm ready for it, but I know it's true as soon as I say it.

"You're perfect."

Rachel's mouth opens, and then it closes again, and I can tell she's struggling between crying and smiling as she settles on staring. I offer what I can—the smallest of smiles, to assure her that I'm not lying, that I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

"Rach, you in—oh."

I whip around, mentally cursing the unceremonious breaking of our connection, and see Finn peering inside. I bite back a sharp remark about how this is the girl's bathroom and, unless he's had a sex change we don't know about, he needs to get the hell out.

"I…didn't mean to interrupt," Finn says, but he creeps further in.

"It's fine," I say at last, and I see Rachel flinch out of the corner of my eye as my voice grows cold and hard again. "I was just leaving."

I march to the door and swing it wider, and he gives me a cursory glance before filing in past me. I make to leave, but something stops me again and I glance back. And Rachel has her tear-filled eyes locked on me as Finn wraps her in his arms, and the wind is knocked out of me again—and this time I'm certain she can see the awe in my expression before I tear myself away.

Outside of graduation, that's the last time I saw Rachel Berry in Lima, Ohio.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:** You bad, bad people (love ya, but you're naughty). I have enough stories on the roster to last me a lifetime. This is kind of a 'guess what Quinn's been up to' chapter, a little filler, but sort of necessary. Oh, and there is a place near New York City called Yonkers, but I don't know anything about it, so please suspend your disbelief. (Quinn's nickname for Mercedes = Cedes = Say-deez, in case you're wondering later.)

**Chapter 1**

_Three years later…_

I go to smack a hand down on the offending alarm clock shortly before realizing that (a) it's situated on the other side of the bed and (b) I am now blindly flailing my arm at nothing but air. Rather than muster the energy to roll over, I pull the covers over my head with a groan, in hopes that the machine will eventually shut up on its own.

Instead, its cry grows more and more piercing—until it's grating on my nerves so badly I can no longer ignore it. I heave over and press the 'off' button as hard as I can, glowering at the stupid piece of machinery. Whoever invented the alarm clock should be dragged out into the street and shot.

And I wonder who on _earth_ would buy one that keeps screaming louder and louder. It's just another question to add to my growing list, right next to who would buy bar stools with leopard skin covers.

Over the past two days, I've been discovering the joys of living in a pre-furnished apartment, the joys of living alone, and—of course—the joys of living in the off-campus part of a city. All my previous 'homes' have been dorms that me and my roommate-of-the-moment had to equip with furniture, save for the beds, and were within the limits of the University of Michigan campus.

Of course, in Ann Arbor, 'the U of M campus' pretty well describes every section of town, except for the tiny space Washtenaw Community takes up. In New York, however, the line between campus and off-campus is less blurred, and that line is nice and thick in Yonkers.

I personally would have preferred staying in New York City; if not for the food, for the location. Not only would I be closer to the college, but Yonkers is, unfortunately, rather close to my sister, Connie. Who, despite everything, is still quite the daddy's girl. This does leave me with the happy title of 'Mom's favorite daughter', but the proximity is aggravating nonetheless.

With a firm shake, I clear my head of my sister and fling aside the covers before striding over to the mostly empty dresser and pulling out the wrinkled clothes I've been re-wearing for the past couple days.

"Damn airlines," I mutter as I yank on my jeans.

This move to New York was doomed from the start, I acknowledge grudgingly.

After receiving my Associate's Degree from the U of M, I figured I would finish out my training there and perhaps after a couple years on the job, I would move to a more urbanized environment. That was, of course, when my mom and my three closest friends decided to pounce, claiming it was the best time for me to transfer and get out on my own. I was under the impression that I was already out on my own, what with going to college and having a job and all that, but apparently I was mistaken.

My friends just wanted me closer to them, so I could understand that. It's my mom's motivations I'm still having trouble comprehending, since all this did was put me further away from her—and I swear to God she didn't stop whining for a week straight about me being a whopping two hours away from her. In response, I kept trying to get her to move out of that cow town, but she claims to love it there, and far be it from me to deny her that free Bingo night at Breadstix every Friday.

In any case, the plan was not to give in. That is, until my most recent disaster of an ex-girlfriend chose to piss me the hell off. No one says Quinn Fabray is 'too afraid' to do something. That's like saying ice cream is too hot to eat.

Granted, Cassandra was just being herself (a bitch) when she said it, but one catty comment from her was all it took to set me off. And my friends and family definitely weren't going to complain about that. And yes, I realize I should get a hold of this intrinsic need I have to prove myself to people (oh, all right, to prove them wrong, mostly). It's going to get me into trouble someday, I'm sure, and—oh, look. Here we are. I roll my eyes at myself.

Anyway, after a few calls to my friends in New York, mailing a hell of a lot of essays telling NYU how awesome I am, and watching most of my hard-earned money fall into the greedy hands of airline employees, I had myself transferred and I was on a plane to my newest home (aka: the cheapest thing we could possibly find that was even remotely close to NYC). So now, I'm starting anew, creating a fresh new path for myself, a clean slate in a new city. Pulling on clothes that stink of both overuse and, well, B.O., however, I feel anything but clean and fresh.

Since the airlines messed up, though, this is all I've got until (a) they find my missing luggage or (b) the delivery truck with the rest of my belongings arrives. I don't have hope for either of these happening soon, so thank God for Mercedes's love of shopping trips.

With the baggage misfortune hanging over my head, I had almost hoped that 'pre-furnished' meant that there were clothes ready here, too. Although, judging from this person's chosen style of decorating, it's probably a good thing there aren't. The décor just _screams_ early American bordello.

In any event, for the past couple of days, I haven't had any time to buy clothes myself between all the runs to the gas station next door for temporary food supplies, the talks with the landlord, finagling with bills, reunions with old friends, and job interviews; so here I am, wearing old stinky clothes in my new pre-furnished life.

To my everlasting shame, I've gone on every job interview I can possibly find, hoping to find _anything_ to keep me from ending up dependent on someone else—worst of all, my sister. And that includes an interview with a greasy, leering bartender looking for either a hooker or a waitress (I'm not sure which) at a seedy little bar off the road named Jack's, as well as one with an older woman whose daughter was entirely convinced she should be running the show at a little café that seemed a bit too Betty Crocker for my taste. That one was called Ruby's.

I wonder what people's affinity with naming places people's names in this town is all about, especially since as far as I could see, there was neither a 'Jack' nor a 'Ruby' hanging around either place.

While waiting in the lobby of my fifth interview of the day, I had gotten so bored I created a tragic love story for the two names, Jack and Ruby, resembling that of Romeo and Juliet. Apparently I'd been muttering about it to myself, because a few of the other interviewees gave me pitying 'it's okay, crazy lady' looks when I left with the news that I'm 'not exactly what Bowman's Printing Company is looking for.'

Fortunately, my connection to a Ms. Brittany Pierce is about to come in handy. She's become quite the dancer since her days as a Cheerio, and her reputation combined with her natural sweetness will easily land me a job at the dance studio she works for. It's just an entry-level receptionist gig, but it's better than nothing, though I feel weird about letting Britt do me favors like this.

Still, at least it's not Connie who's trying to get me a job. So I won't have to worry about my employers knowing every single detail of my life, excluding the parts that make my sister look bad. Unless Connie has already told everyone in Yonkers….

"Stop freaking out right now," Mercedes says when I pick up the phone.

I roll my eyes. "You know me too well."

"That's my job," she says proudly. "Are you ready to go yet?"

"I'll be right down. I'm still trying to understand how one person could have so much porn under their bed," I comment as I eye the pile of magazines filling my trashcan that my friends and I discovered and promptly threw away yesterday. "And also how this person could be a _woman_. And, I mean, what the hell is this thing we found in her closet?"

"Oh, you mean the vibrator?" she asks, laughing.

I nod, picking up the stick in one hand and examining it curiously.

"Yeah," I say belatedly.

"I can't believe _you_ don't know. You're such a square. It's what women use to—"

I shriek and throw the thing as far away from me as possible, wiping my hands on my jeans hurriedly.

"I can't _believe_ I just touched that," I say, horrified. "Dear _God_, this woman was disturbed."

"Yeah, she was. I'm guessing either she was a virgin trying to learn all she could about sex," Mercedes comments thoughtfully. "Or she was a nympho."

I wrinkle my nose and rush out of the apartment.

"In any case, we need to pick you up a vibrator of your own," she continues casually.

"What? Cedes, no. I'm perfectly happy without…_that_, thank you very much," I say haughtily.

"Prude," she teases, chuckling in my ear. "But come on, you need to get back in the dating game."

"Mercedes, it's only been a week and a half," I remind her, rolling my eyes heavenward. "I'm not sure how the relationship code works in New York, but I doubt I've passed the accepted grieving period yet. And, besides, I don't know if I'll ever date again. Obviously, the whole relationship thing? Doesn't work out so well for me."

"That's just because you picked the _wrong_ girls," she shoots back. "I bet Britt could fix you up wi—"

"Hey, no! No fixing up, okay? Just let me get settled in with a job and with school," I tell her firmly, shutting my cell phone as I open her car door to hop in, "then we'll _talk_ about dating."

Mercedes grins and starts up the engine.

"I'll take what I can get."

XXXXXX

"To new sheets," I announce grandly, raising my already half-empty beer bottle with my companions. They grin lopsidedly at me. "For I can now safely sleep in my bed without wondering if I'll wake up with syphilis."

They all cackle and take a swig, and I giggle along with them, wiping my chin with the back of my hand when this laughing-while-drinking thing stops working out. After five hours, two emergency coffee stops, and about twenty five million stores, I now have what amounts to a closetful of clothing (no small thanks to Mercedes) and all the new bedware—yes, I know that's not a word, but shouldn't it be?—I could ever want. I know the movers will be here in a few days with my mattress and bed frame from home, but I was afraid I'd lose my sanity before then. Thus, bed sheets.

"To hugs!" Brittany suddenly exclaims, and for a minute all I can see is yellow, until she releases me from the bear hug and grins at me, lifting her beer ceremoniously. "Because yesterday I was afraid to hug you, Quinn," she adds sagely.

I know where this is going, but I don't stop it—I'm having too much fun. "Why?"

She wrinkles her nose. "The smell."

We all roar and Mercedes leans into me, sniffling because we've been making her laugh so much she's on the verge of tears. I playfully smack Brittany's arm so she knows she can't get away with it, and she plops down next to Santana with a happy grin.

"I'll have you know I showered _and_ washed those clothes every day," I protest halfheartedly.

"And you _still _smelled like you just climbed out of a sewer," Santana replies with a grin. She's still a bitch, but since high school, she seems to have lost her ability to keep up that icy façade. "Of course, that's not far from the truth."

We're all laughing again, but I wave a hand for attention, still snorting through my words.

"Ann Arbor was not that bad, okay?" I defend. My cheeks hurt from laughing.

"Yuh-huh!" Mercedes scoffs. "Why do you think I got the hell out of there after one year?"

"You mean when you _ditched_ me?" I retort mock-bitterly.

"Look, Kurt wanted you to come, too, but would you accept? Noooo." She rolls her eyes.

"That's only because I knew he was going to do exactly what he did."

"So? He may have ditched for L.A., but he left me with a fucking _sweet_ penthouse view!"

There are snorts and cackles all around again, and I'm sure the only reason people aren't shooting us dirty looks is because the music is so loud.

"That reminds me, I've got a good one," Santana interrupts, raising her bottle again. "To having the same _lame ass_ friends as we did in high school!"

They laugh and drink, and I start to join them, but then I almost spew my beer all over the table as I whip my head around to catch the flash of brilliant brown hair that I swear I just saw out of the corner of my eye. I scan the crowd for her quickly and then deflate in disappointment when the woman turns and I catch a glimpse of her face. Not who I thought, that's for sure.

I've only been in New York three days, but ever since I stepped off the plane, I've been exceedingly alert, ready to catch sight of her anywhere I go. I know it's ridiculous. There are about eight million people in this city, so the chances of us meeting within three days of my arrival are astronomically small. And really, what am I expecting? That after three years of silence and a brief interaction in a bathroom she's going to run into my arms and tell me how much she's missed me? Reality check for one, please.

Mercedes is the only person in our group of four that I know of who has even talked to her, and that was two years ago. Apparently they were going to meet up when Cedes moved to New York, but their schedules never worked out. I don't know anything about her life and, besides, what makes me think she'll want to see me? Other than that one time in the bathroom, I was pretty much a bitch to her throughout our entire high school careers. She has no reason to want to talk to me.

"Hey, you okay?" Santana asks, and I know I've let my depression when it comes to thinking about a certain brunette overwhelm me yet again.

I offer her a cheap, fake smile that all three of them can see through and clear my throat. "Yeah, fine. How about one to New York?"

I raise my bottle, and even though both Mercedes and Santana are giving me 'the look', they whoop with Brittany and toast with us. I drink more in that swig than I have all night, hoping to drown thoughts of Rachel Berry out of my head so I can actually have some fun before my classes start next week.

Despite what it looks like, I didn't know I had feelings for her that day in the bathroom. Yeah, I know I'm an idiot and it's _blindingly_ obvious to me now—I'm a little surprised even Figgins didn't know—but it's true. At the time, I knew I liked her, that I wasn't feeling the hatred toward her that used to consume me until I turned into a raging bitch. I felt a connection to her—we'd both had a rough time, and I felt like we understood each other. I kind of understated things…like a lot.

Because, as you can see, it's three years and quite a few girlfriends later and I am _still_ hoping for some sort of connection with her. You know, besides in my sick, sick mind where every scenario somehow turns into her getting naked.

"Beer," I yelp, pushing myself onto wobbly legs. "I need more beer…."

My friends shake their heads at each other and continue chattering while I wander to the bar, hoping the walking break will help distract me from the images of lovely tanned skin under my hands. The last thing I need is to get horny under the influence and end up waking in bed with a brunette who I'm sure probably looks a lot like Rachel when you're wasted. This has happened before, trust me, and it's not pretty.

I head back to the table with my brand new bottle to find them toasting Sue Sylvester's everlasting supply of insults to Mr. Schue's hair. I have no idea how we got on that topic, but I'll toast to that any day—cause seriously, I worried that it was alive sometimes.

I am so going to regret this in the morning, but it's completely worth it. I'm finally back here with my three best friends, in a new city (and finally wearing fresh clothes), and for the first time since glee club, I feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be. Like I belong here.

I can only hope this means good things for the days ahead and my new life in New York.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I was going to work on a different story today, but I'm feeling as 'FML' as Quinn in this one right now. I made up the club 'Echo.' And don't worry; we've got some Faberry right around the corner. And for those of you who asked for the lowdown on Brittana, read on. :)

**Chapter 2**

Have you ever tried to do five things at once? It's not fun.

I started out thinking I'd get some work done on the research paper that's due at the end of the semester, since I know I'll have about five million other projects along the way. Then someone bid on the stained, tiger-striped couch I decided to put on eBay, because I simply cannot live in this apartment if it's going to look like something out of the Playboy mansion.

I decided to put the leopard skin stool covers up as well, and while I was doing that, I realized I need my desk lamp if I hope to accomplish anything more on this paper, so I started decorating my barren desk that finally arrived a week ago, while two pervs started having a bidding war over the stool covers—I was briefly reminded of JewFro when I saw one of their handles is 'FroMenOrah.'

It made me giggle (in a morbid way), and then I remembered that I forgot to reply to Kurt's congratulations on my move on Facebook. I wandered there, and then my phone rang and it's Brittany, and before you know it, I am doing five things at once and my laptop is cussing me out for trying to load so many pages at the same time and I still don't have my desk lamp plugged in so I keep having to use the swearing laptop's light to find things, including the outlet.

I'm so focused on gathering all the cord and trying to hold the laptop, cell phone, _and_ lamp while simultaneously wiggling the plug into the outlet that I don't hear anything Brittany says until the fateful words 'blind date' register in my brain. And then I get so alarmed that I forget that I am, in fact, bending _underneath_ my desk to plug the lamp in.

"_OW_! Son of a _bitch_!"

I really shouldn't be surprised, since this is basically how my two weeks in New York have gone so far, but cracking my head on my desk wasn't exactly something I planned on happening. And it hurts like a mother.

"Q, are you okay? You hurt my ear," Brittany tinny voice queries from the floor while I whimper and rub my poor head.

I plop my laptop unceremoniously on the desk and swipe up my cell phone from next to the lamp.

"Sorry," I mutter as I cross the room to flip on the light, which is probably what I should've done in the first place, come to think of it. I'm brilliant sometimes. "Just hit my head. Now could you repeat what you said for me, please?"

"Your head? Are you okay?" she asks urgently.

I roll my eyes. "I'm fine. Don't change the subject. Did you say 'blind date'?"

My stomach clenches with apprehension as I open the freezer door, intent on getting some ice. She doesn't answer right away, drawing out the wait, and I let my nose freeze off waiting for her to answer.

"Britt?"

"Huh? Oh! Yes, Q, you're going on a blind date!" she says cheerfully.

I can just see her clapping.

"B, no," I say, my breath going ragged as I lean my head against the freezer door. "There's no way in hell."

My life is already busy enough without dating, and I honestly cannot handle the stress of trying to nurse a new relationship on top of everything. Not with my four classes and my verging-on-full-time job as a receptionist and my mother's weekly calls making sure I haven't been mugged and Shelby's monthly calls telling me how Beth is doing and my sister's daily emails asking if we can get together and my three _very_ socially active best friends. I can't possibly add anything else. Can't, can't, can't.

Besides, the last blind date experience I had led to possibly one of the worst and shortest relationships of my life. I will never rely on any of my guy friends to set me up ever, ever again. Which reminds me—I forgot to give Jim (my old roommate) one more knuckle sandwich before I left Ann Arbor. I'm just wondering what he would do if I showed up unannounced this weekend (completely ignoring the fact that there's no way I have enough money to fly back right now) and punched him in the face when Brittany breaks in.

"But Quinn, it'll be good for you," she says encouragingly. "You were just saying the other day how stressed you've been with your new classes and everything. This will give you some fun time!"

I roll my eyes. Santana and Brittany's definition of 'fun time' has always been a little…different, and there's no doubt in my mind that San (and probably Mercedes) are in on this, too. So I take the cautious road.

"Britt, you know I don't sleep with people on the first date. Especially not when it's blind."

She laughs in my ear. "You don't have to! Even if Santana says you do," she adds sagely.

I can't help but smirk. "Where is San? I need to scream in someone's ear until they go deaf, and it's not going to be you or Mercedes."

Another giggle filters through. "Thanks, Q. But she's not here right now. She's working on a case study project with some woman from her class."

My heart sinks for Brittany as I hear the bitter jealousy enter her voice. It's such a slight change that I'm not surprised I never noticed it in high school, but these extra years have taught me a lot about her and now my fellow blonde's heartache is blatantly obvious to me.

Now, I have to step back and be objective for a moment, because Brittany _was_ the one who insisted on only being roommates until they'd both had some time to settle into their lives and new identities after high school, and it was a smart move. I won't deny that I'm a little glad I had time to settle into my roots a bit before I see Rachel again (if I ever do). If anything were to happen now (not that it would), I feel like I'd be ready—but this isn't about me and my insane, impossible fantasy that I really need to stop thinking about since I still haven't seen her and probably won't, and even if I did, she probably wouldn't want to talk to me, let alone be my friend or date me or be naked with me….

Anyway, it was a smart move when they first left Lima. But it's been three years, and Santana only dated that first year—and that was on Brittany's insistence that she try new people. After that, I know for a fact she's been going cold turkey, waiting for Brittany and, in the meantime, focusing her energies on becoming a kickass defense attorney. I have to admire Santana for her turnaround. In high school, she was constantly flitting around to anything that would spread its legs for her, but as soon as she graduated, it was like someone smacked her upside the head with a clue-by-four—and she realized all she wanted was Brittany.

Of course, I also get why Brittany is hesitant to accept this new, devoted Santana, after all the sleeping around and hiding they did in high school. Just like I'm sure Rach—damn. I almost broke my record. I was going on almost a minute there of not having one single thought revolving around her. It wasn't this terribly hard when I was in Ann Arbor, and I know most of that is probably because I _knew_ there was no chance of seeing her there. Here, I'm just waiting for her to pop back up in my life like in some kind of ridiculous romantic comedy where we'll spill coffee on each other walking down the street and then realize who we spilled on and it'll be all awkward until—wow, what am I? Five?

_Anyway_, I understand Brittany's caution, but I also know there is no way in hell Santana will screw things up this time. She'll wait forever if she has to.

"Britt, you know she's just—" I start soothingly, but she doesn't want to hear it.

"Anyway, this will be fun for you. You need to relax," she cuts in, fake cheer in her voice.

I sigh, but decide to let it go for now. Brittany tends to get really sensitive when you push her, and I don't want to make her cry if I'm not there to give her a hug and apologize.

"You do realize that we have spent eight nights in the two weeks I've been here out at Echo, right? I think that qualifies as plenty of relaxing, and if I want to do more, I have you guys."

"And in the two weeks you've been here, you've _only_ hung out with us. You need to meet new people. That's what being in New York is all about, right? New experiences and everything? That includes new people."

"You are too persuasive for your own good," I grumble, and resume getting my ice pack, since my head still hurts and my nose really is going to fall off if I keep standing here like this. Plus, I don't have enough money to pay for the electric bill if I keep the freezer door open throughout the rest of the conversation.

She practically squeals. "Does that mean you'll go?"

"No," I say firmly. "I'm not in date mode right now, all right? I'm focusing on school, and that's good enough for me. Besides, I don't have time for that stuff."

I plop back into my computer chair, ice pack to my head and cell phone to my ear as I try to figure out the safest way to plug in the lamp without killing myself this time.

"You do if you _make_ time," Brittany replies determinedly. "And I have it planned perfectly." I can practically hear her grin when she adds, "Cedes helped."

"Wait, _you_ planned _my_ blind date?" I ask, brow crinkled most comically, I'm sure.

"Cedes said it would be easier to get you to go if you knew you didn't have to do anything but show up."

I grumble to myself. Damn Mercedes and her all-knowing…ness.

"All right—_not_ that I'm agreeing to this," I snap, and then soften as I continue, "but what do you have planned?"

She squeals again. "On Saturday—"

"This Saturday? But I—"

"Sh. I'm not done," she says sternly. "On Saturday, you will meet with Mercedes and she'll give you the tickets—"

"Tick—"

"And then you'll go to Patty's apartment—"

"Pat—"

"And pick her up. You'll have dinner at the new Thai restaurant in So Ho—"

"But I hate—"

"And then you'll go see the musical—"

"Mus—"

"And depending on how things go, you will either take her on a romantic walk in Central Park—"

"That's—"

"After which you will kiss her good night at her door—"

"There will be no—"

"Or you will simply take her home, say good night, and we will try someone else."

I huff in the silence, waiting for her to go on and holding in my plethora of protests. There is no way this is happening. I will not go. I won't.

"I'm done. You can be angry now," Brittany tells me good-naturedly.

I fume. "Okay, first off, there will be no trying of anyone else, _ever_. Nor will there be any kissing, under _any_ circumstances. Second, I hate Thai food; third, Central Park is kind of far depending on where the theater is; fourth, where are we getting these probably very _expensive_ tickets? And why are we going to a musical? Shouldn't dinner suffice? Fifth, why do I have to play the guy's role? And sixth…who the hell is Patty?"

I really want to finish that with 'cake,' but that makes me think of how Shelby told me that was one of Beth's favorite games, and although it doesn't hurt as bad as it used to (thinking of Beth), it still bums me out and I really do want to get some work done on this paper.

"I hope you know that was like nine things, not six," a familiarly snarky voice says.

I roll my eyes. "Look who's home."

"Look who's on speaker phone," Santana replies, and I know she's grinning.

"San just got in, but I didn't want to interrupt," Brittany says.

"So are you two going to bother answering my questions, or…?"

"Um, what was the first one?" Britt asks.

"Look, Q, you may as well face the fact that now that you're living within B's radar, she will not stop until you're set up with somebody. Get over it. Also, I'd hoped you hopping out of the closet would make you less of a prude," the Latina says with mock-disgust.

"Yeah, you've mentioned that before. Several times. I even have an email consisting entirely of reasons I should be more open about sex."

"Well, you should be. Anyway, you don't have to do the Thai food or Central Park. You can be as creative as you like, and please, God, try to be. Don't do your usual Italian restaurant followed by dancing—but only if you like them—routine. It's been done."

"It really has," Brittany interjects, and I can't help but smile a little.

"But you do have to do the musical, because you love them—don't even try to deny it—and Britt got the tickets _for_ you. So you're going, whether it's with Pattycake or Eddie your creepy neighbor," Santana continues brusquely.

I smirk. You can always count on Santana to run with the jokes no on else will touch with a ten foot pole.

"How did you get them, Britt?" I ask, because I'm really curious.

Brittany has done a couple of musicals in her time, but it's been a while now and she's usually focused on music videos and her exhibitions. I didn't think she made that many ties during her theater days.

"One of my classmates from NYU was helping out with choreographing and he owed me a favor," she explains, and I wonder if that's a bit of mischief I hear in her voice. I brush it aside when she adds, "His name is Scott. You'll probably see him."

"Oh."

"And you have to be the guy because Pattycake is a baby lesbian," Santana says, and I _know_ she's rolling her eyes. "So you have to be gentle with her."

"Again, who the hell is Patty?" I repeat, hoping for a more detailed answer than 'your blind date.'

"She's a lady I met at the dance studio a few months ago," Brittany pipes up. "She was taking a beginner's tango class, but she's an accountant." Ooh, fun. "She's really nice." Aka: boring as hell. "Her name is actually Patricia, but she prefers being called Patty." Because she's secretly a two year old. "I think you'll really like her."

"She's uptight like you, so it might work out," Santana comments.

"You know this isn't really a blind date anymore, since you're telling me everything about her."

I bite my lip as soon as I say it. I really should learn to control my impulses, but sometimes I can't help myself. The expected squeal comes through the line, and I hear Santana chuckling affectionately at the clapping blonde, who is probably bouncing, too.

"That means you'll go!" Brittany exclaims.

"I didn't say that," I protest, scowling because I know I've lost.

I'm going whether I like it or not. Emphasis on the not.

XXXXXX

"Whoa, smokin' hot mama!" Mercedes says after whipping open the door, offering me a grin that lights up her whole face.

I glance anxiously down at myself. I know I don't have horrible fashion sense or anything, but right now I'm kind of wishing I did. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't trying to look good. I was trying to look…well, not bad, but undesirable. Damn my hotness.

"You think?" I ask nervously, hoping she'll put my reaction to apprehension rather than disappointment.

"Totally," she assures me with a grin and a wave of her hand. "Come on in."

I slip in behind her, pulling the door shut as I survey the family room of the spacious penthouse apartment Kurt left Mercedes with. She's right—it definitely wasn't a bad deal. Stephen is plopped on the couch, feet up on the table while he nurses a beer and watches some football game I couldn't care less about. He's on the team at NYU, though, so I try to show polite interest whenever we're around him. Which is a lot, since he became Mercedes's live-in boyfriend three months ago.

"I'll run and get the tickets; make yourself at home."

She hurries up the stairs and I sigh, surveying myself one more time. Maybe I shouldn't have gone with the skirt. Maybe pants would've been better. The skirt has a slit up the side, and it's only to help my mobility, but still. It's suggestive, which wasn't what I was going for. Or the gauzy blouse. Gauziness is like a veil, which makes people think of mystery, which usually leads to steamy sexual attraction. Again, not what I was going for. And maybe I shouldn't have gone with the loose bun. It also indicates 'I just rolled out of bed after a good fuck and strung up my hair.' I think I've lost my touch.

"You look hot," Stephen observes, startling me. "Got a date?" He takes a swig of beer, eyebrows raised.

I shrug. "Sort of. I've been dragged kicking and screaming into taking some woman I've never met out for a meal and a show." I ponder this. "So yeah, I guess I'm going on a date."

He smirks at me and I smile weakly back.

"How's the game?" I ask, leaning forward a bit to see the screen.

"You don't have to pretend to care, you know, Quinn. I know most women aren't into this stuff. Doesn't bother me," he says sympathetically.

I can't help a small chuckle. "Frankly, I'd rather hear about your game than go on this date," I tell him.

Stephen laughs, but before he can reply, Mercedes is thundering back down the stairs.

"Okay, here they are. Did Britt get you the address?" she asks, handing over the slips of doom.

I roll my eyes. "Yes. As did Santana. As did you, actually."

She smiles sheepishly. "I'm sorry, hon. We just want to see you happy. I guess we're a little over-enthused about getting you there."

"You think?" I ask, but I'm smiling. "Look, don't worry about me. I'm happy as can be."

Mercedes nods, but I can tell she doesn't really believe me. Stephen has gone back to his game.

"So, are you going to the Thai place?" she asks, already knowing the answer, from the look on her face.

"No, I'm sticking with Italian," I say firmly, and raise my eyebrow when she huffs. "What?"

"You always go with Italian."

"It's classic."

"And boring. Quinn, you've never taken a girl out for anything but Italian on the first date," she says pointedly, shaking her head with a puzzled expression. "It's like you're stuck on repeat or something. Why don't you try to change it up?"

They've asked me this a million times—even Jim used to ask me. Why I follow the exact same patterns in every relationship I've had. Why I can't seem to break out of a routine. Why I'm so bored, even in brand new relationships. I've never seriously considered it before, because it really just annoyed me that they seemed to want to change me. But now I pause, because yeah, isn't this supposed to be me starting afresh? Isn't this supposed to be my clean slate? Shouldn't I be trying new things instead of replicating old patterns?

The fact is, I've never felt the need to change things up. I've been pretty apathetic most of my life. I tend to let things slip away from me because I just don't care enough to fight for them. And when I do care enough, I usually convince myself it's for the best if I let it go. Like with Beth, and Rachel.

That explains why so many girlfriends have come and gone, of course—I charm them and we get along and then eventually they realize that they have my affections, but not my passion. And it bothers them until they can't take it anymore, and I let them go because, really, if I cared enough in the first place, they wouldn't be leaving. And they do deserve more. But that still doesn't explain my routine dating cycle.

It's not that I haven't liked my girlfriends. Of course I've been attracted, even gotten close to love, but no one has ever inspired me to…_try_. It's not like these women aren't special; it's just that they're not _my_ special one. I know I sound like a real jackass saying that, but it's true. They're nice enough, but I've never wanted to go above and beyond—for any of them—and I think I have an inkling of why, but I'm not going to say it. At least not right now.

So I just smile wryly and say, "Guess I need new programming." She opens her mouth, but I slip the tickets in the pocket of my jacket and back toward the door. "I've got to go; don't want to be late. Enjoy your game, Stephen."

"Have a good one," he calls absently, and I offer another weak smile to Mercedes before I slip out the door.

XXXXXX

Patty's apartment building is in a nice neighborhood. She must make pretty good money for an accountant, but then I should've figured that if she took a class at Britt's studio. Not that her studio rips you off—you definitely get the best instruction around—but it is expensive.

I nod at the receptionist, who looks like she might be playing Tetris, judging from the amount of concentration she is using on that screen. I feel her pain, so I just smirk and slip into the elevator. Four floors and two turns later and I'm outside Patty's door with sweaty palms and a pounding heart. I really should've protested harder to this stupid date.

I reach to knock, but there's a buzz in my pocket and I open the text just as I receive another.

_Don't fuck it up. – Santana_

_Don't listen to S. You'll be fine! :) Call us when you get home! – Brittany_

I roll my eyes, mostly out of fondness for both of them, before I slip my phone back in my pocket and take a bracing breath. Here we go.

I wince as I tentatively knock twice. After a moment, a high voice calls, "Coming!"

I wait, rocking on my heels, and finally the door comes open and I see Patty for the first time. She's not bad looking, I'll give her that. But she definitely looks like an accountant. She has horn-rimmed glasses over chestnut eyes and her light brown locks are practically plastered to her head in a tight bun. She wears a high-waisted pencil skirt and her button-down is frilly where it pokes out of her matching jacket. She looks like she dressed for the office, not a date.

I smile and hope it's not pinched. "Hello, I'm Quinn. Fabray. Brittany's friend."

I offer my hand hastily and she smiles widely, taking it and shaking it so vigorously I worry that I will no longer have it when she's done.

"Patricia Brown," she says eagerly. God, even her name is boring. "You can call me Patty." She flashes pearly whites at me.

"Nice to meet you."

"You, too."

I pat my pockets in the awkward silence that follows wherein Patty just looks at me, and I'm reminded of Finn Hudson for a brief moment. This was just about how he looked on our first date—eager as a puppy dog about to chase a ball, and nervous to the point of throwing up. This comparison does not bode well for Patty, I reflect.

"Um…you ready to go?" I ask, backing up a bit.

"Of course!"

Patty practically bounds ahead, locking up her apartment before we shuffle awkwardly around each other and head to the elevator in silence. The cab ride to the restaurant is the only time the silence is broken, and that's because I'm telling the cab driver where to go and she comments that she loves that restaurant and I agree. Silence follows again until I decide to put in a little effort and say I love Italian, to which she replies that it's her favorite. It's not mine, so I just smile.

Yep, this date is super fun.

When we're seated at the restaurant, she asks what I do. I explain that right now I'm a receptionist, but that I'm in college to become a trained nurse. She doesn't look all that impressed, but she perks right up when I ask about her, and then she takes off on the most boring story you have ever heard.

Seriously, I'm not even going to cover the conversation because you will probably shoot yourself like I wanted to. Even the waiter was giving me sympathy looks. All you need to know is that she was very good in school and skipped a grade, and now she's doing her favorite thing ever. I don't know how these two events are related, since I think I zoned out around the fifth grade. Which I think I deserve kudos for—I held out for a _really_ long time.

I glance at the tickets again when the waiter asks if we want dessert and politely decline, because our show starts soon. I also notice for the first time that we're going to see '_The Sound of Music_' and I consider putting Patty in a cab home, because I honestly don't think I can stand three more hours of accounting stories on top of all the yodeling that'll be taking place on stage.

But I suck it up, help Patty put her coat on, pay for the meal, and she compliments me on what a good listener I am on the way over. I just smile and hope it's not pinched again.

I hand over our tickets to the woman in the booth and she tells us to enjoy as she hands me two programs. I give one to Patty, who immediately begins perusing it, and I have to steer her by the elbow as we make our way inside and to our seats so she doesn't run into a pillar or something.

Brittany was able to get us pretty good seats. They're not balcony or first row, but we're still in the middle section and fairly close to the front, so it should be good, I think. Patty is still looking through the program with her nose scrunched up, almost pressed to the page even though she's wearing glasses. I tap my program on my thigh with a sigh, looking around the dimly lit theater as other people filter in and take their seats and the band warms up.

A man sitting with another woman—I can only presume she's his wife—who is in much the same pose as Patty, smiles sympathetically at me. I roll my eyes playfully and he chuckles, and my brief amusement fades as I face the front again.

"Oh, look!"

I nearly leap out of my seat at her exclamation, and then I shrink in it, because you really aren't supposed to be that loud in a theater, even if the play hasn't started yet. Nonetheless, I glance over to see what Patty is so excited about and flip open my program with a quiet huff when she starts yammering instead of letting me see.

"Brittany's dance studio is listed as a sponsor. Of course, silly me, I should've known they would be on there. They've only been my client since I got the job." She giggles and I smile indulgently at her before turning back to the program.

Everything stops. The band warming up is only a distant blip on the radar, the people talking around us is a quiet hum. Patty's chatter is the last thing on my mind. All I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears as I read it over and over, convinced it's not possible. But the words don't change, no matter how much I squint or widen my eyes; no matter how many times I read it.

I suck in a sharp breath as the lights dim lower and a single figure walks onto the stage to much applause. My eyes go back to the program one more time, just to make sure I'm not fooling myself. It's still there.

'_Maria…Rachel Berry_.'


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you guys so much; your reviews are like cookies. :)

**Chapter 3**

Oh. My. God.

Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!

I've been in New York two weeks and _now_, when I've been forced into some stupid blind date by my insane friends, is when I get to see her? Are you freaking kidding me?

Wait…what the hell am I complaining about? She is actually _here_. In this theater. Right now.

I have to wrap my fists around the armrests to keep myself from darting out of the chair and bolting backstage to find her, because God, I want to see her so badly I'm nearly crawling out of my skin at the thought. But she's probably warming up or putting on makeup or something and I can't interrupt that, because this is _Rachel Berry_, for crying out loud. She's probably prepping the nuns as I sit here waiting for her to appear.

And now I have to bite my lip, because I really want to scream at the director (I can only assume that's who he is, since I haven't actually been listening to his drivel) to get off the stage so I can see Rachel.

"Are you okay?"

I nearly leap to the ceiling, because I'd completely forgotten about Patty in light of this new information, and I shoot her a smile I know is pinched this time.

"Yeah, fine."

She pulls a face, looking uncertain, and I feel a little twinge of guilt that this date couldn't be better for her. Santana _did_ mention she was a 'baby lesbian', after all, and this experience certainly could've been more enjoyable had I felt like expending the extra energy that would've taken. Or had I actually _wanted_ to go on this date.

Unfortunately for Patty, my guilt doesn't last long since all I care about at the moment is Rachel and finally getting to see her after three long years of separation.

"Are you sure? We can go if you want," Patty murmurs, and that is when I almost take her head off.

"_No_!"

A few people shush us even though the director guy still hasn't finished thanking people, and I turn beet red and shrink down in my seat a little. Patty looks mortified and more than a little hurt. I reach to pat her hand as quickly as humanly possible without scaring her further.

"No, I'm having a good time. We can stay."

I am _such_ a bad person.

Patty smiles, a little more confidently now, and turns back toward the stage. I feel another twinge of guilt at this, because really, the poor woman deserves a better first lesbian date experience, but I'm just not the one to give it to her. That doesn't excuse me basically using her to see Rachel, of course, but when the director steps off the stage and the lights go out and the band starts playing, I find myself unable to care anymore.

I am distantly aware of my knee bouncing so wildly the program is threatening to fall off my lap, so I take a chance and detach my fist from the armrest to dig into my thigh and hold it steady. I nearly growl at the nuns, silently willing them to hurry the hell up. (If you couldn't tell, I'm a little excited about Rachel getting on that stage.) The nuns finally take their leave and I scoot forward a bit in my eagerness. My heartbeat is thrumming in my ears, practically drowning out the orchestra as the curtain lifts again and _my Rachel_ appears on stage.

Even if I hadn't seen her name in that program, I would've known it's her. I'd know her anywhere, especially with that presence. She demands the attention of everyone in the audience as soon as she steps on that stage, and I'm definitely not immune to it. I'm practically hanging on the edge of my seat, drinking her in from afar, and thinking how amazing it will be to see her up close.

She's costumed for the role of Maria, of course, but Rachel is there underneath the hairstyle and makeup and dress. She doesn't look like she's grown much as far as vertically, and she's by no means heavy, but she's a little more filled out in all the right places—less gawky. Her breasts are more noticeable now, I think. And I'm blushing. Thank God it's dark in here.

I don't get to observe much else because then she's singing.

Oh. Holy. Fucking. God.

I know it's been three years, and the last time I heard her sing was in a choir room with admittedly mediocre acoustics compared to an auditorium of this size, and the last thing I heard her sing was possibly one of the most depressing songs ever written and she was crying whilst singing it…but I swear to God she has somehow gotten even _better_. Which I honestly hadn't thought was possible for Rachel Berry, but I think she seriously has.

Even when she's singing the softer parts, her voice fills the auditorium, sending goose bumps over my arms and my hair is standing on end and I don't know if it's because it's been three years or because she's even better than before or because it feels like her voice is literally washing over me, but this has quickly become physically enjoyable for me, and again I'm glad it's dark in here, because my cheeks literally feel like they're on fire, and I have to bite my lip hard to keep from panting. I am so pathetic, but I really couldn't care less.

Rachel is _right there_.

And then the song ends and Rachel tears the audience out of its angel's voice induced coma as she groans at the sound of church bells and bolts off the stage with all the grace of a baby calf. I fight a grin, because I'm seeing the Rachel I first met on stage—the awkward, bubbly girl brimming with self-confidence and yet crippled by adolescence and haunted by insecurity.

It makes 'I Have Confidence' even more amusing to me, and I'm giggling with the rest of the audience as Rachel swings her luggage wildly about in grand gestures of courage. I think this song was probably perfect for her in high school, and I wonder how Mr. Schuester missed the opportunity to have her perform it.

The smile that's been plastered to my lips since she came into view flips downward at the repeated insults to the Maria dress as I recall that Rachel has put up with that a lot in the past. I hope she doesn't have to deal with it outside of her character now. She jumps comically at the sound of the Captain's whistle and my smile is back as she teaches the children 'Do-Re-Mi.'

It isn't until the Captain asks Maria to stay that I realize that Rachel has not only fulfilled her potential as a singer, but as an actress, too. She never slips from character—not once—but that's not really the part I notice. She's not walking with that determined bravado and gusto now. She's slipped into the more graceful movement she had in our senior year, her lines are spoken with more precision; she's become more poised as the character grows into a woman and mother, and she did it right under our noses.

I'm impressed by the woman who plays Mother Abbess—she nailed that high note—but my focus is on the solemn figure behind her. I wonder if Rachel ever felt that confused about her feelings for someone, ever wanted to run away like Maria did. It doesn't seem likely, because Rachel never runs from anything. She always seems to find the courage to face things head on. Unlike me.

I'm so busy pondering this that it startles me when everyone starts cheering, but I quickly stand with them and clap as loudly as I can until it starts to die out as people rush to the bathroom. I sink back into my chair, breathing heavily and grinning like the idiot I am. I want to run backstage now, surprise her, but I'm afraid of throwing her off her game. It would be a shock to see me out of nowhere like this, I'm certain, and besides, I want us to have all the time in the world when we see each other (in case she actually does want to talk to me, and so if she doesn't, I have time to mope with my good friends Ben and Jerry). I guess I'll have to wait until after.

I huff impatiently and my knee is bouncing again.

"Are you sure you don't want to go?" Patty asks, and again I jump, because I forgot about her…again.

"I'm sure," I say firmly, and shoot her another of those pinched smiles.

We fall into silence and there's that twinge of guilt again. I could make an effort to be friendly here, even if there's no way this evening is leading to anything now. Not that she really had a chance before, but now there's no way in hell (and I don't mean that in a 'no, I will not go on a blind date, Brittany' way). Rachel is the only thing on my mind.

"Are you enjoying it?" I ask halfheartedly, smiling a little again.

She brightens. "Very much. I've never seen it before, but I can see why people like it so much."

I really don't know what to say to that. So I smile and nod again. I seem to be doing that a lot tonight.

The lights flicker twice, indicating that people should take their seats again, and my heart leaps in its excitement to see her again, even though it's only been about five minutes. Still, I have three years to make up for here. Can you really blame me for wanting to soak in as much of her presence as possible?

It seems to take forever to get to Maria rejoining the children, and I'm so focused on that reunion that I forget about the love triangle taking place until Elsa breaks off the engagement. And then I am so jealous of the Captain I can barely breathe. While Rachel sings a sweet ballad with her leading man, I'm briefly reminded of her early obsession with having a romantic attachment to the male lead (Finn, at the time). I brush it aside as quickly as possible, because Rachel is more mature than that now—obviously—and besides, Elizabeth was definitely not a leading man. The bitch.

The thought calms me down and I'm able to focus on the plot again as it progresses. Maria's growth into a mother figure comes to its height with the reprise of 'Sixteen Going on Seventeen', and I'm unable to contain my smile as Rachel interacts with Liesl, stroking her hair in such a tender, maternal fashion I can't even begin to feel jealous. It's just adorable, and my heart simultaneously aches and swells at the thought of her with my Beth.

I can't help my smirk as Maria's quick thinking. It would've been just like Rachel to get New Directions out of trouble that way. Not that we ever had to face Nazis, but still. I consider Sue Sylvester to be close enough.

The nuns end the play with their reprise and the curtain closes, and I'm clapping so hard my hands hurt. The actors come out to bow to the audience, and I keep it up, but I wait until Rachel sweeps gracefully back onto the stage, hand in hand with her leading man, to really get into it. I am grinning like a moron, but I couldn't care less. I whistle as loud as I can when she curtsies and bows alone before sliding back into step with the rest of the cast. She shoots a wide grin around at them as she goes to lead them forward for the final bow, and my heart skips a beat.

I wonder if it'll just plain leap out of my chest when I see that gorgeous smile up close.

XXXXXX

I have never been so grateful for someone having to go to the restroom. While Patty is off doing that, I get to stand near the entrance to the auditorium and consider various ways to sneak backstage without security trying to kill me. I know it's likely I won't be able to get by unnoticed, but I can't pass up this chance to see her, even if I am on some blind date.

"Hey, are you Quinn Fabray?"

I whip around to see a tall, athletic-looking man with a lopsided grin looking at me. My immediate instinct is to tell him no and hurry off, but there's no alcohol smell coming off him and he doesn't _look_ like a stalker slash serial killer. Of course, if serial killers actually looked like serial killers, then we wouldn't have nearly as many serial killings, because they would already be in jail.

I shake my head to clear my circular thoughts and frown at the guy, just in case. The Head Bitch loves to come out and play sometimes, and this is the perfect opportunity. I fold my arms.

"Depends on who's asking," I say flatly, and he laughs before sticking a hand at me.

"I'm Scott, Brittany's dancer friend. I'm sure she mentioned me," he replies, though he sounds a little uncertain at the end.

My frame relaxes and I shake his hand. Scott. The choreographer guy who got her the tickets, I remember. I'm suddenly smiling at him and his lopsided grin goes even more crooked. His eyes are twinkly, and I wonder if Brittany is friends with the guy because he's a dancer, or because he's like a skinny, dancing version of Santa Claus. Without the beard, and the affinity for red clothing.

When I realize we're still shaking hands, I give myself a mental kick and release him, offering another smile.

"Yeah, yeah, she did. Listen, thanks for getting her those tickets. It was really, really great."

Really, really, really, Scott. Like uber-fantabulous. I want to hug you.

"Hey, it's no problem. I owed her and, you know, any friend of Brittany's…." He trails off with another grin.

"Hey, I'm back," Patty announces suddenly, and Scott jumps a little but grins at her when she slides to my side.

I don't miss the extra twinkling in his eyes when he looks at her.

"Oh, hey. Uh, Patty, this is Scott, Brittany's friend who also got us the tickets," I explain rapidly. "Scott, Patty."

Patty glances at me, but I ignore the very obvious message. There's a reason I didn't introduce her as anything but 'Patty,' but she doesn't need to know that. Right now. Nonetheless, her frown is making me anxious.

Scott saves me by offering her another handshake, and he chuckles when Patty gives him one of her hand-stealing shakes.

"Nice to meet you," he says politely. Twinkly eyes…man's got a crush on a baby lesbian, I think.

"Nice to meet you, too," she replies.

Patty is harder to read. That grin could mean anything. It almost looks like she's grimacing, actually.

"Did you enjoy the play?" he asks, and I notice that even though he glances at me, he's really asking Patty. Who is never one to disappoint, apparently.

"Oh, definitely! It was fantastic! And the dancing scene—I thought most actors didn't have that much experience, but they were excellent."

Oh, Patty. You just won Scott's heart. I can see it in his twinkling eyes. Little do they know, Rachel was already a damn good dancer before Scott swooped in and helped out with choreography. Speaking of which, they are totally wasting my time right now. I'm supposed to be entering Rachel's dressing room through the air ducts right now.

You can tell I'm bored when my plans start involving air ducts.

"Well, some do, some don't," Scott says cheerfully. "Devon—" Who the hell is Devon? I really should have looked at the names past Rachel's…. "—actually needed the most tutoring. Rachel pretty much had it down."

I beam with pride that totally doesn't belong to me, but I couldn't care less, and Scott finally looks at me, and when he does, it seems like something clicks into place.

"Oh! Uh, hey, the cast is having a party—kind of an end-of-the-week of performances shindig—"

Patty snorts and it startles me. I glance at her and she's cackling at Scott's use of the word 'shindig.' It sounds like the bray of love. Maybe Scott's baby lesbian crush isn't a lost cause after all.

"—at Devon's. You ladies are welcome to come, if you like."

Scott grins again, but this time he is totally directing his comment at me and my jaw nearly drops to the floor as I realize something. My friends totally set this up. Scott must've mentioned working with Rachel to Brittany, who passed along the news to Mercedes and Santana, and they knew I wouldn't go to some musical by myself but…they must've known how I feel about Rachel because they wouldn't come and intrude on this. And Scott was _supposed_ to come find me and take me to the cast party. That's why Brittany sounded so mischievous on the phone when she mentioned him! Dear Lord, my friends are crafty!

Although the blind date thing is a little weird. Seems sort of counterproductive to send me on a date to see Rachel when she's not my date, if they know about my feelings for her. Whatever, I don't care. I'll figure that out later. Right now, I just love my friends, and Scott, and even Patty a little bit.

"Yeah, of course, that sounds great!" I yelp so excitedly that Patty jumps. I flinch a little and turn to her. "If that's okay with you, of course. If you have to get up early or something…." I will put you in a freaking cab home and go myself.

Patty's glancing at Scott. He twinkles. Love is in the air, people.

"No, that sounds fun. Let's go," she says, and I give her possibly the first genuine smile I have all evening.

Scott grins at us. "Well, then, this way, ladies. Your chariot awaits."

Patty snorts.

XXXXXX

It's when we're approximately halfway to Devon's (I only know this because Scott announced it—not because I'm a creepy stalker) that I start to freak out a little bit. Scott and Patty are sitting up front laughing it up over something or other (I valiantly gave up shotgun so I could be alone in the back with my thoughts), and I feel my palms start to sweat. I am going to actually _see_ Rachel.

Crap.

What am I gonna do? What am I gonna _say_? What will _she_ say? Do I hug her? Or is that too personal and intimate for seeing her for the first time in three years after one nice little moment in a bathroom? Oh, God, the last thing she remembers about me is probably the words 'Man Hands' scribbled in over some sick drawing on a bathroom wall. Come to think of it, those pornographic sketches probably should've told me something….

Focus! Okay, is a handshake too formal? There's no middle ground between a hug and a handshake, really. I really should've taken all this into consideration _before_ the air duct plan. Or, like, in the millions of scenarios I've dreamt up. I usually get distracted by the nakedness in those, though.

It's okay; I have plenty of time to dream up something new right here. Something realistic. It's a party, so there will be mingling and lots of alcohol. If I drink enough, I can always pass the hug off as the alcohol making me feel a little overly friendly, right? The same excuse probably wouldn't go for feeling her up during said hug…. When did I turn into Puck?

Anyway. Party. Depending on how big this party actually is, my first course of action should probably be _finding_ her. And then—

"We're here."

Damn you, Scott. Just when I start to get somewhere with my scenario.

I hop out and start wringing my jacket sleeves around my thumbs, twisting them into a disfigured mess and hardly noticing Scott leaping around his car to help Patty out. I follow them up to the tall apartment building as they continue their conversation from the car, still coaching myself to breathe and calm down.

I _am_ the Head Bitch, after all. I'm the Ice Queen. I'm supposed to exude confidence and poise. As Santana once told me, I am 'hot as a barbeque, cool as an ice cube, and sexy as a cowgirl on a mechanical bull' and I have 'abso-fucking-lutely _nothing_ to fear.' Granted, she was totally wasted when she said that and it was the night before my first date with a woman, but still. Words of wisdom.

This mantra is totally working until we pass the eighth floor. Devon's apartment is on the eleventh. It's then that I realize one tiny problem. Rachel _hates_ the Head Bitch. And for good reason. Nobody likes her; she's mean. And we're back to blind panic.

The elevator dings and I have to coach myself through breaths as the other two precede me to the door and Scott knocks. The door swings open almost immediately and a man around Scott's height with unruly black hair smiles drunkenly at him. I'm pretty sure he's Devon, and also that his hair was much sleeker earlier as Captain von Trapp.

"Scotty!" he exclaims, bringing him in for one of those weird chest bump things guys do. "Beam me up, eh?"

Scott laughs and leans back to usher us ladies forward.

"Hey, Devon, I brought a couple ladies from our audience tonight," Scott informs him, gesturing to us. "This is Patty Brown and Quinn Fabray."

Devon smiles at us and takes Patty's coat. "Welcome, welcome! We've got chips over there and beer, like, everywhere. Just make yourselves at home!"

"Thank you," Patty says and I echo her quietly as I hand Devon my coat as well.

He turns to hang them up and I feel Scott's hand on my back, ushering both me and Patty further into the party.

"Oh, and I hope you ladies enjoyed the show!" I heard Devon yell after us.

Devon has a really, really fancy place. Hardwood flooring, white furniture, and what looks like a killer stereo system. I can't really tell because of all the people milling around, some dancing, some chatting, some making out. Everyone appears to have a drink in their hand, and I do soon, too, as Scott puts one in my hand. I smile at him gratefully, because I could really use one at the moment.

I'm practically shaking as I peer around the room, hoping to spy her somewhere in the throng of dancing bodies. Hopefully not attached to someone else's tongue.

"Come on, I want you to meet somebody," I hear Scott say, and soon Patty is dragging me through the masses behind him.

Scott introduces me and Patty to 'the sound guy' for 'The Sound of Music.' Amusing. I'm only half-listening to the conversation as Patty asks in-depth questions about the equipment, all the while sipping her drink and making the bray of love at Scott's comments. A few other people join us and I desperately want to shove that guy with the mustache whose name might be Brad out of the way, because he's blocking part of the room and I'm still looking.

It is step one, after all. Find her. And seriously, I cannot pass up this opportunity my friends so sweetly gave to me. It might be my only shot.

It's only when I catch sight of Devon bounding through the crowd that I find her, because he leads me straight to her. He bounces to her side and gives her a one-armed hug and she grins up at him and my jaw drops and my stomach twists and my palms are so damn sweaty…. Once again, Rachel is _right there_, only this time she isn't Maria.

No, this is all Rachel Berry. A little older, maybe, but good God she's just…wow. Her hair cascades in waves over her shoulders, still as brilliantly brunette as ever. Her bangs are still present, but now swept to the side and occasionally falling in her beautiful chocolate eyes. The little head toss she does to get them out of the way somehow makes me feel warm all over. Her face is thinner, her cheekbones a little more defined, and I feel that intense feeling I haven't felt in three years all over again looking at her.

God, she's gorgeous. And…not wearing any type of granny clothing.

My eyes widen as I take in the stylish navy blue top she's wearing, hanging off those sweetly rounded shoulders and emphasizing her breasts. I linger there until I feel my cheeks burning, and then my gaze slides down to the black skirt she's wearing. Of course, always with the little skirts. Only this time it goes to at least mid-thigh and the material swishes with every move, seeming to accentuate those long, long, _lickable_ legs. My mouth is seriously watering, and I haven't even gotten to the heels she's wearing.

How is it possible that my heartbeat is in my throat? I lick my dry lips and drag my eyes back up her body, burning with what I now realize is the most intense arousal I've ever felt. I'm looking at this woman across a room, haven't spoken to her in three years, and I am getting turned on. I'm fucked.

I've also gotten to step two, which I never got to define thanks to stupid Scott. What do I do next? I've seen her, I've checked her out—thoroughly. I consider going over there, but I'm still supposedly involved in this conversation, in which I am occasionally laughing when I hear Patty braying next to me. I take another sip of beer as I consider my options, and ultimately decide to consult the Head Bitch.

She's curious to see what Rachel will do if she sees me. Now I am, too.

I'm practically tingling with anticipation, keeping one ear trained on the conversation going on next to me so I can laugh at the appropriate times, but my eyes are all on Rachel. She occasionally leans into Devon as she laughs, but as far as I can tell, she's got a friendship with him like she did with Mike toward the end of senior year. They'll share a grin and he'll put his arm around her shoulder briefly, but it's nothing more than that. I should not be this relieved.

If she doesn't notice me soon, I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up over there whether the Head Bitch likes it or not. I'm itching to talk to her, hear her voice and her laugh up close. Her laugh is so beautiful.

And just as I have this thought, Rachel breaks away from her group a bit in a fit of laughter, Devon steadying her with an arm around her waist, and glances up. Right at me.

XXXXXX

**A/N:** Question, does anyone mind if this fic becomes rated M? I'm pretty sure it's going to. Quinn clearly has a dirty mind (which has nothing to do with me *shifty eyes*).


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Because you guys were all so sweet (and prompt) with your reviews, I decided to post this one next. I'm going to try to update my WIPs in alphabetical order (because I'm OCD that way), so 'Can't Breathe Without You, Baby' is next. Also, anything that doesn't have the label 'complete' is going to be completed. I haven't forgotten about any of them, promise. :)

I hope this isn't too anticlimactic…let me know.

**Chapter 4**

To say that Rachel was surprised to see me would be an understatement. Of epic proportions. After the initial glance, she did a double take so fast I'm still worried she might have whiplash, and then her jaw went slack and she just stared at me. Wide-eyed.

And remember what I said before about wishing I had worse fashion sense? Yeah, I take that back. I am _so_ glad what I wore looks hot, because if I had to see Rachel looking like I dressed out of a cardboard box? I would probably have shoved Brad the mustache guy in front of me by now.

Unless…oh, God. What if Mercedes and Stephen were just being nice? What if I haven't lost my touch? What if I look _horrible_?

I can't tell if that's the case from Rachel's expression, because she's not wearing one. She's just looking at me, but now at least her jaw is shut. And not clenched, so that has to be a good sign. Right?

I try to calm my nerves as I feel and see her gaze wander over me, examining my clothing and likely my weight. She probably hoped I'd gotten fat. I wouldn't blame her. I was a bitch in high school. I probably deserve to be fat. In fact, I think I broke the rules of karma by _not_ getting fat.

Even with these thoughts, my arousal hasn't gone far, especially with her eyes traveling over me like that. I feel my cheeks flush, but refuse to stop looking at her. One, because if I do she'll think I don't want to see her. Two, because I literally can't. She is, for lack of a better phrase, a sight for sore eyes, and I really, _really_ want to go talk to her, but she's still staring.

Then her eyes meet mine. Those big, soulful brown eyes are looking right into me and is it just me or did her cheeks darken? I don't even care. All I know is my smile just got about ten times bigger because she doesn't look upset to see me. Her lips are curving upward in a shy smile, and her eyes are sparkling, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say she's actually _happy_ to see me.

It's only after a moment of more smiling at each other that I realize that Rachel is not going to make the first move. And I don't care. She wants me to go first? I will. She wants me to dive off a cliff? I'll probably bring a parachute, but sure!

I don't want to look away, but I don't want there to be any obstacles between us in our hypothetical reunion hug, so I glance away long enough to set my cup on a nearby lamp stand and then I'm walking toward her. It feels so surreal that I actually have to pinch myself to make sure I'm really wading through a crowd of people toward Rachel Berry after three years of not seeing her.

She looks nervous as I grow closer, glancing at the group of people she's supposed to be talking to with a brief, tolerant smile and then bringing her gaze back to me and swallowing. I smile reassuringly and I hope she doesn't notice that I am pretty much eyesexing her as I approach, letting my gaze linger on her gorgeous legs and shapely breasts and hoping to God she at least wants to be friends so I can have regular access to this delicious eye candy that I'm pretty sure I'm addicted to. I never, ever want to go three years without this. Ever again.

At last, I am about three feet away from Rachel Berry in a room full of partiers, and she's giving me a tiny smile. She looks fascinated, eyes a little glazed, like she's pretty sure this is a dream, too. I kind of want to suggest she pinch herself, cause it really works, but I can barely breathe as it is. All I can do is stand there and look at her with this big grin on my face. Like the moron I am.

"Quinn," she breathes and I have to force myself not to tackle her against a wall and take her right here and now.

I mask my raging arousal with a soft smile. "Hey, Rachel."

Like we see each other all the time. I am such a _moron_.

"You're in New York," she says, and you just know with anyone else I'd be saying something really snarky right now.

'Ya think?' Or 'It looks that way.' Or 'Damn, and I thought that doorway led to Narnia.' But this is Rachel, and I haven't seen her in three years, and even if I _still_ want to be snarky, she isn't used to my sense of humor. I don't want her to think I'm making fun of her, because that's so not it. I just want to tease her. Really badly.

How did I not realize how completely gay I was in high school?

I smirk. "Yeah, I transferred to NYU and made the move two weeks ago. I live in—" ugh, why did I move to a place with such an embarrassing name? "—Yonkers."

Rachel's eyes just got brighter. How is that possible? She flashes a small grin at me.

"That's so wonderful! I'm—congratulations!"

Another grin and I'm speechless. I'm only able to mumble a small 'thank you,' and then my cheeks are so red because she's rendered me mute that I'm sure she's going to notice the sad truth about the Head Bitch in Charge, Quinn Fabray. She's a dork.

"It's so good to see you," Rachel says emphatically, and she hesitates a couple times before launching herself at me and now I have an armful of Rachel Berry and why did we never hug in high school?

Seriously, this is the best feeling in the world. I'm sure of it. Her lithe little body is pressed right up against mine—my only fear there is that she's going to feel how hot I am from her proximity—and her chin is on my shoulder, putting her luxurious curls in my face, and I bury my face in her neck to inhale the sweetest scent of…strawberries. I'm pretty sure. I bite my lip to keep from moaning, though I'm almost positive I just hummed in my throat and embarrassed the hell out of myself—again.

My eyelids flutter, both at the smell and at feeling her squeeze her arms around my waist. I return it, but then she's pulling out of the hug and I am trying so hard not to pout and whimper at the loss of contact. She smiles brightly up at me. She looks surprised about something, but I don't get to ask what.

"So, so what are you doing here?" she asks, gesturing around the room so I know she's referring to the party. "I mean! Not that I'm not glad. I obviously am very happy to see you since I practically just molested you in the middle of—"

"I saw the play," I interject with a grin. Same old Rachel.

Her smile falters and she bites her lip and oh, God. She cannot do that again. I _will_ molest _her_. She looks incredibly nervous for some reason, and I'm really not sure why because this is Rachel Berry. Confidence is her middle name, and for good reason. She may be tiny, but her talent is about the size of the Empire State Building.

I decide to reassure her anyway, partly because we can't have her biting her lip again.

"You were—" is it too soon to say 'perfect' and bring up old memories? "—amazing."

Rachel grins shyly, and this time I know her cheeks are darkening.

"Really?" she queries softly.

"Of course. Like we always knew you'd be," I tease, smiling.

She tosses her bangs out of her eyes. "I didn't think that was the majority opinion of most of our classmates."

My heart clenches at her almost bitter tone and I feel guilt swarming in my stomach, but she's not glaring at me. Her smile is still there, eyes sparkling when I smile back, albeit weakly this time. I sober instantly when I think of what I want to say.

"We all knew you would be. We just hoped you wouldn't," I explain softly, lowering my gaze to the floor. When I glance up to see her almost wounded expression, I hurriedly supply, "Jealousy. Really powerful thing."

She nods, sighing. "Tell me about it. At least you've never sent anyone to a crack house. Active or inactive."

My stomach shakes with laughter before I can help it, but then Rachel grins at me and I realize that was her intent so I let it loose. I never knew she had a sarcastic sense of humor before, but now that I know, we are totally going to have some fun. I hope. This is going really well and I can hardly believe it, but I think this means I at least have a shot at being her friend.

She opens her mouth like she's going to say something else, and I really hope it's to ask for my number or something, but her gaze darts to my right and her expression turns quizzical. I nearly leap to the ceiling when someone touches my arm and I tear my gaze reluctantly from Rachel to find…Patty. Great.

Patty is oblivious to the scowl I'm wearing, though, because she's looking at Rachel with this fake-sweet smile on her face that I recognize all too well. What the hell is she doing? She's not even into me!

"Hey, Scott told me to round you up. He has a dance class early tomorrow morning," Patty tells me.

"Oh." They teach dance on Sundays?

Patty is doing a weird head jerk. It takes me a minute to realize she wants me to introduce her to Rachel. I'm tempted to refuse, but, with a heavy sigh, I turn back to face her. Her brow is knit with puzzlement and I sincerely want to strangle Patty.

"Uh, Patty, this is Rachel Berry. We went to high school together," I say flatly, and then I gulp because Patty's eyes are boring into the side of my head, daring me to introduce her as just 'Patty' again. "Rachel, this is Patty, my uh…my date."

If I sound like it's physically painful for me to say that, it is. I know Rachel doesn't care, but….

Rachel's eyes widen in what looks like surprise as she glances quickly between me and Patty, and her mouth quickly forms an 'oh.' I can't bring myself to meet her eyes, but it doesn't matter because she drops her own gaze to the floor, hiding her face from both of us behind a curtain of hair. It almost startles me when she lifts her head again, along with her hand, and offers it to Patty with the patented Rachel Berry smile.

"It's lovely to meet you," she says brightly.

Patty almost shakes her hand off, as usual, and I see Rachel subtly roll her wrist when she lowers her arm to her side. I smile a little.

"You, too," Patty is saying, smiling fake-sweetly again. "You were so great tonight. I've…never seen anyone open their mouth that wide."

Did she just…?

I look at her in shock and, yep, she said it. She looks happy about it, too. I want to hit her. Instead I turn to Rachel, ready to apologize for my insane date's weird behavior and then reproach the little bitch, but she beats me to the punch, which surprises me. For a minute there, she looked like she couldn't quite believe Patty said that to her, either.

Now she's smirking. "Yes, well, as Quinn could tell you, I've always had a pretty, uh…_big_ mouth."

I know what she's referring to. Anyone who knows our history knows that Rachel is actually talking about spilling the paternity of Beth to Finn. Or even just to my constant annoyance with her tendency to ramble. But Patty doesn't know, and Rachel knows she doesn't know, and I'm pretty sure she phrased it that way on purpose. Just judging from the satisfied gleam in her eye now that Patty is flapping her jaw at her like a fish out of water.

I can't help the beam I'm giving Rachel, and she looks like she really doesn't mind it either. In fact, she pretty subtly winks at me, and I really want to rip off all her clothes, but we're interrupted yet again.

"Hey, Rach, there's some, um, people here to talk to us," Devon interjects as he appears at her side, glancing warily at me and Patty as he says 'people.'

Rachel mock-gasps and I grin because it's just like high school when she does it.

"People? Really?" Devon nods sagely and she says, "Well, that's remarkable, but guess who else is people? Quinn!"

I can't help my giggle as Rachel gestures at me in a way that would make Vanna White proud. Patty is now glaring at me. I don't care.

Devon rolls his eyes and dips to whisper in Rachel's ear, and I see her gradually droop and then sigh, nodding.

"Oh, okay. Um, tell them I'll be there in a minute. Just one minute," she says, and he nods before smiling at the other two of us and then disappearing in the throng of people again.

Rachel turns mournful eyes to me and sighs heavily. "I'm so sorry I have to cut this short, but I really have to—"

"Don't worry about it," I cut in, smiling reassuringly. It looks serious, after all. Even if I do want to smack Devon upside the head.

"We have to go anyway," Patty bites out, tugging my arm toward the door where I'm sure Scott is tapping his foot and hoping for the love of his life to reappear.

I don't want to leave. I'm enjoying basking in her splendid presence too much to go. Maybe I can convince Scott to blow off his class so I can wait for Rachel to get back from talking with 'people.' I really shouldn't do that to him, though. It could be important. I frown after Patty's retreating form and bite my lip as I turn back to Rachel, who saves me from my indecision.

"I'll walk you," she supplies, smiling a little as she steps to my side.

I beam at her and grasp her arm lightly when we have to squeeze through bodies to get to the door. Only because I don't want her to get lost in the crowd, of course. There is no other motivation whatsoever.

Scott and Patty are chattering again and I see (or rather, hear) that he's gotten her cheered back up, because she's braying again. Rachel looks amused by the sound, but her eyes are on me as I snatch my jacket from the hook and swing it on, gazing at her regretfully. I don't want to leave. I'm tempted to stamp my foot and refuse.

"Do you have your phone?" Rachel asks suddenly, and when I nod, she bites her lip again. She has got to stop doing that to me. "Do you want my number?"

I wonder if it looks desperate to anyone else that I immediately yelp, "Yeah! That-that would be great."

Santana would be laughing her ass off if she could see me now.

Rachel just grins widely and holds out her hand, and I hastily place my phone in it. As she enters it in, she comments, "I would get yours, but my purse is in the bedroom. If you text me later, I'll add it."

I grin, totally smitten. "Okay. I'll talk to you later then."

She smiles. "Uh, next weekend." I tilt my head quizzically and she clears her throat. "I'm holding the last cast party at my apartment next weekend. If you want to come, you're most certainly welcome to. You can bring Patty or, or anyone else you like."

I wonder if I'm seeing things, or if her smile is pinched when she mentions Patty. I decide to ignore it because she just gave me an excuse to see her again. I'm ecstatic enough about that without wondering whether or not she dislikes my 'date.'

"Sounds great," I tell her sincerely. "I'll be there."

Her smile grows again before turning shy. "It really is good to see you."

I'm feeling wild flutters in my stomach as she reaches for me again, wrapping her arms around my neck this time. I sink into her once more, sighing happily as her strawberry smell surrounds me, and my nose finds a blanket in her warm, silky hair. This hug is lasting much longer than the first one, and I am so not complaining. Especially when I hear a little hum vibrate in her throat this time, as though of contentment, and I try not to moan and start kissing her neck or something like that.

A throat clears that is neither of ours, and that's the only reason we step away from each other, I'm pretty sure. I smile down at her and she returns it.

"I'll see you later," I practically whisper, and back blindly toward the other two.

Rachel smiles and waves as I reluctantly shut the door, and I immediately want to wrench it back open and bounce back into her presence. It's only the thought that she still has 'people' to talk to that keeps me from doing it.

God, I can't wait for next weekend.

XXXXXX

Scott and Patty exchanged numbers somewhere on the drive back to her apartment. Since it was supposed to be our date, I had him drop me off with her. I can take a cab anyway and I'm not actually planning on going home yet. I have a certain couple of friends to visit, and it is so not waiting until tomorrow morning.

I try to bring myself back to my current situation, rather than thinking about how I'm going to treat this situation when I get to Santana and Brittany's apartment. I also try not to shake Patty by the shoulders for acting like a jealous idiot when she was off braying at Scott before. I still have no idea why she's acting so bipolar, other than that I was pretty obviously eyesexing Rachel on my 'date' with Patty and…that probably didn't make her too happy.

Whatever. She still pissed me off.

"So," I say as we reach her door, patting my pockets.

I'm getting déjà vu. She looks at me through her glasses, looking almost…apologetic? I frown uncertainly and we both take a breath to speak at the same time.

"I—"

"Well—"

"Oh, sorry. What were you going to say?"

"It's nothing. Go ahead."

"No, you first."

I sigh. "It wasn't important. I was just going to say good night."

"Oh. Um, well, I had a good time," she says slowly.

I hear a 'but' on the end of that statement and I smirk. She is so _not_ a baby lesbian. Just curious.

"Me, too," I say. I've decided to make it easy on her. I offer my hand. "Maybe I'll see you around."

Patty brightens, taking my hand and shaking firmly. But at least she hasn't torn it off this time. I nod and turn back toward the elevator, but she calls my name and I pause as I'm pressing the button.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry about earlier," she says sheepishly.

I smile, because at least she knows she was being crazy. "Don't worry about it."

The elevator dings and just as I'm about to go on, Patty calls out to me again.

"For what it's worth? I think she likes you."

XXXXXX

"I am _coming_, all right? Stop fucking knocking or I will come out there and saw your hand off with your own nail file!"

I grin to myself at Santana's roared words and take a step back from the door, because this isn't going to be pretty. At least not at first, but my friends are so busted. I would've gone to Cedes's, but she and Stephen tend to go to bed at a godly hour—these two don't. I'll get to Mercedes tomorrow.

The door whips open and, sure enough, the growling Latina takes a ferocious step out into the hallway, eyes wide and jaw grinding.

"_What_?" she snarls. I grin at her and that doesn't help. "What the fuck, Q? Do you know what time it is?"

"Please, you weren't asleep anyway," I retort, rolling my eyes.

"I could've been for all you know!"

But she steps aside and allows me inside, and I prance into the apartment past her before whipping around with this huge grin that just won't go away. I probably look like someone stuck a hanger in my mouth. Or like Barbie.

Santana growls at me as she leans against her kitchen counter and rubs her forehead.

"I take it the date went well," she mumbles grudgingly. "Since you look like you just spent five hours in a theme park after lighting up a joint."

I roll my eyes. "You would know."

Brown eyes peek out from behind her hand, which is still rubbing vigorously at her head.

"Huh?"

Though I know she thinks I'm referring to the theme park thing (where does she get this stuff?), I simply smirk, toss the program to the counter, and fold my arms. She's _so_ busted. She huffs at me and scoops up the program, scanning the first page and then meeting my eyes blankly. She shrugs.

"So you saw 'The Sound of Music.' Big whoop. What, it's your favorite or something?"

I scowl, but I'm not put off. "Look at the cast, San."

Again, she heaves a dramatic huff that gives Rachel a run for her money and opens the program painstakingly slowly.

"Hey, San, who was at the—oh, hey, Quinn!" Brittany says brightly, bounding over to us. "How did it go?"

I smile at her, but wait for Santana's realization that she has been found out instead of responding.

"_Berry_ was in it?" She snorts. "Wow, that must've been fun. You get to talk to the squealing midget? Or, rather, get squealed at _by_ the squealing midget?"

"That's not nice, San," Brittany says quietly, seeing my glare.

"You seriously didn't know?" I prompt, frowning at Santana, who's looking at Brittany with a sort of stunned surprise.

She jumps a little and goes to the coffee machine. "Know what?"

I groan my frustration. "That Rachel was going to be there. Wasn't that the whole point of the stupid date?"

I feel like a moron when she just stares at me with utter confusion on her face. That moronic feeling fades when Brittany pipes up.

"Yup!"

I slowly turn to face her, and she just grins at me. I am in shock. Pretty literally. I can't believe Brittany thought of all this all by herself. I know that sounds mean, but what I really mean is that I can't believe she kept it from Santana and thought of it by herself. They do, like, everything together. Even now that we're out of high school.

"B, you…you set this up?" I ask, more for confirmation than anything. She bobs her head, grinning widely. "And Mercedes didn't know?" A shake.

"Wait. What the hell is going on?" Santana interrupts, but we both ignore her.

"How did you even…know?" I clear my throat uncomfortably. "I mean, that I…how I feel…you know."

Brittany's grin is seriously blinding. I'm glad Ms. Pillsbury dated that dentist for a while, because at least now her pearly whites match her bubbly personality.

"Well, you were always staring at her a lot. And when she was sad, you always got grouchy," she tells me sagely, and I feel myself starting to blush because it's oh-so true. "I thought you wanted to be her friend, but then she sang that song to Elizabeth—"

"More like Eliza_bitch_," I hear Santana mutter, and I shoot her a grin.

"—you got really sad that she wasn't singing to you," she concludes.

"You…noticed?" I ask quietly, shifting uncomfortably in place.

She nods her head, a sympathetic frown on her face, and I feel really weird now, under her scrutiny. I can't believe I never noticed how perceptive Brittany is. It's remarkable. And really, it makes sense that she, of all people, would've noticed my feelings before even I did. She's the same with Santana, after all, and it's one of the reasons they just…work. Santana doesn't like to open up, and it's okay, because Brittany already knows how she's feeling. They fit that way.

"Whoa, whoa. Wait. Q has a thing for _RuPaul_?" Santana breaks in.

I glower at her and I'm about to hiss something nice and ego-breaking, but Brittany beats me to it. She sets her mouth in a deep frown, looking the closest to stern someone like Brittany can, and Santana actually visibly backs down.

"Be nice, San," my fellow blonde says firmly, enunciating each consonant. She's actually a little frightening.

Santana retreats to her coffee, which is ready, though she mumbles and shakes her head as though she's still processing all this. I don't really care. I turn back to Brittany.

"Okay, so if you knew all this time, why now?" I inquire eagerly, thirsty for information.

She smiles again and I'm relieved. "Well, you had lots of girlfriends, so I thought you moved on. But then, the day you got here, Scott told me he was going to lunch with Rachel and this Devon guy because he was doing 'The Sound of Music' choreography, and I just knew—it had to be fate! And even though San says fate is supposed to work on its own, I think sometimes it needs help." She nods wisely at me. "So I helped!"

I grin hugely at her, but I save my enthusiasm for after my last question. "So…what was with the blind date?"

Brittany eyes me briefly. "Does Scott have Patty's number?"

I nod, brow furrowing, and she nods delightedly.

"Fate," she says simply.

My cheeks really hurt from grinning so much tonight. Seriously, Brittany made my day—my week—possibly month. That plan was so devious, so perfect, so…coordinated! She's brilliant. Sue Sylvester would be so proud. Hell, _I'm_ so proud.

"Britt, you are my absolute favorite person," I tell her, and before she can react, I tug her into my arms and squeeze her as tight as I can.

I feel her hesitate for a second, because normally she has to initiate hugs with me, but then her arms are tight around me and I can't believe I got so lucky as to have this person in my life.

"Hey!" I hear Santana yell, and both Brittany and me pull back just enough to look at her.

I'm expecting her to be mad because I got 'all up' on her woman, but she's actually _pouting_ at us. Literally. Her arms are folded and her lower lip is sticking out.

"I thought _I_ was your favorite person," she says glumly.

Brittany and I meet each other's gaze, and as soon as my fellow blonde's lip twitches, we are both almost doubling over with laughter. I hold onto the counter for support as I grin at the still-pouting Latina, who sips her coffee petulantly.

"Well, when you get me my first chance to see Rachel in three years, we'll see," I manage to get out through our giggles.

Uh oh. Santana's expression goes from pouting to hard and determined. Oh, God, she's got her 'lawyer face' on. I'm immediately alarmed, and though Brittany is still snickering, I can tell she's a little disturbed, too.

"Oh, I'll do better than that. Give me your phone." She rounds the counter, holding her unoccupied hand out expectantly.

I gape at her. "What?"

"Your phone, Fabray. What, you need a hearing aid already?"

Santana may have just been pouting over not winning the title of 'Quinn's Favorite Person,' but she is still freaking scary. After a moment's hesitation, I reluctantly dig into my pocket and plop it into her outstretched hand. She snatches the phone away before I can have second thoughts, and I exchange a worried glance with Brittany as she begins scrolling through the contacts. It's when she lifts the phone to her ear that I feel it's time to intervene.

"What the hell are you doing?" I hiss, stepping forward to take the phone away.

She jerks out of my reach and puts her fingers to her lips, shushing me. I glance at Brittany, who shrugs, and then Santana's devilish little smirk appears and I know handing over my phone was a really, _really_ bad idea.

"Hey there, pequena estrella," she greets so sickly sweetly I whimper. She smirks at me. "You're sounding out of breath. Expecting a call?" She sounds way too innocent saying that.

I make a move for her, but she dodges me until I motion that I just want to listen. I manage to press my ear to the other side of the phone just in time to hear Rachel say slowly, "Santana?"

Brittany bounces behind us, leaning in close to hear as well as Santana replies sarcastically, "No, it's Jehovah's Witness. Tell me, Ms. Berry, have you been a _naughty_ girl lately?"

I am going to kill Santana. Kill her dead.

"Mm. Impure thoughts here or there, but nothing that'll garner me an eternity of hellfire. Can you say the same, Ms. Lopez?" Rachel's catty voice breezes through and how is it possible that she makes me smile through a _phone_?

Santana pauses. I turn to glance at her and she just looks…shocked. When she catches me (and Brittany, who's leaning around her other side) staring, she mouths, 'seriously?' and shakes her head.

"Santana?" Rachel prompts.

"Still here, estrella," she says gruffly. "Just trying to decide if strangling you will still land me in hell."

Easy laughter floats through the phone and Rachel comments, "You may want to brush up on your commandments."

"Look, I'd _love_ to keep up this absolutely _stimulating_ banter with you, but I actually called for a reason," Santana replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. I elbow her in the ribs.

"I was beginning to wonder."

"We're all getting together at Echo on Tuesday night, and you're coming."

I try not to squeal—with fright or delight, I'm not sure—and Brittany bounces excitedly behind Santana, who glares into space as though at a phantom Rachel, trying to intimidate her into submission.

"Unfortunately, Santana, I have a previous engagement that evening." Damn. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'm currently in a production of—"

"'The Sound of Music,' yeah, yeah, we _know_. No need to go on extolling your virtues and shit."

A sigh filters through. "I'm still unclear as to who all 'we' entails."

"Me, Mercedes, Mercedes's boyfriend probably, Brittany, and Quinn. _Duh_."

There is a long pause before Rachel echoes quietly, "Quinn?"

There are the stomach flutters again. I clearly love it when she says my name.

"Yah. Kinda makes you want to cancel performances, doesn't it, Berry?" Santana is smirking at me and I elbow her in the ribs again, pressing my ear tight to the phone to hear Rachel's response.

She isn't answering right away, and I wonder what on earth that means.

"I'll have to take a rain check," she says at last, and I hear Brittany let out a muffled squeal behind me. "This is the last week of performances. Perhaps sometime after that."

"I'm holding you to that, Berry."

"I'm so very glad I have you around to keep me honest," Rachel replies, and the laughter in her voice makes me grin.

"Yeah, yeah. By the way, I'm calling from Quinn's phone, so you better add this number to your contacts list, all right? I'm bored of talking to you now. Nighty night, estrella."

And with that, she hangs up. Though I could've sworn I heard Rachel trying to protest in the background. Santana smirks smugly at me as she hands my phone back over. Brittany is squealing and hugging the Latina from behind, making her grin goofily when she presses a kiss to a tanned cheek. That still isn't enough to stop her from getting in the last word, of course.

"I just bought you an evening with Berry. Who's your favorite person now?"


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Is it wrong to fall in love with your own story? :P This is the only one I seem to have no problem coming up with ideas for…. 'The Choice I Make' is next after this—cross my heart.

**Chapter 5**

The problem with texting is that you can't convey tone. At least while you're talking on the phone, you can hear the other person's breathing change, the particular way they say something, and you know for sure that they actually want a reply. It would be really weird if you didn't, after all.

Texting, on the other hand, is just that. Text. One hundred and sixty characters or less (depending on what kind of phone you have, I guess) staring up at you, plain and robotic, that you are left to decipher.

Which is pretty much all I've been doing since I got a text from Rachel at 6:47 this morning reading: _I just realized I never gave you my address for the party this weekend; I swear I have no brain sometimes. Here it is:_ And then her address, of course.

Now, the whole 6:47 a.m. thing can be explained away by the fact that this is Rachel Berry, and she probably still gets up at 6 every single day. I would die if I did that. Or I would kill everyone in a fifty-foot radius and thus be sent to prison for homicide. Neither one would end well, which is why the world should be grateful that I only ever schedule my classes at 8 a.m. or later.

Anyway, the earliness of the text doesn't necessarily mean that I was on Rachel's mind the first thing this morning, especially since she didn't text me yesterday (which was one of the laziest days of my entire existence; Coach Sylvester would have hogtied me and dragged me out of bed while blasting her bullhorn in my ear the whole time if she'd seen me). Also the 'just realized' kind of implies she didn't think about me at all until this morning.

I need Ben and Jerry's….

It's also hard to tell if she wants me to reply or not. I mean, she was just giving me information I am going to need if I'm supposed to show up at her party. I should say thank you, at the very least, right? Although 'thank you' seems kind of short and doesn't really invite any kind of reply, and I really don't want her to think I don't want to talk to her. Though I probably shouldn't be talking to her right now since I'm at work.

Having a staring contest with my phone probably isn't something I should be doing at work either, though. Gosh, I'm productive. Employee of the month material, really.

Giving me her address this early in the week is dangerous, I reflect. Not for her, but for me. Now I'm going to want to go there and we all know how _that_ will go. Stuttering, sweating, staring at the door, generally looking like a stalker. Possibly neighbors noticing creepy stalker, calling the police, getting arrested, waiting for San, Britt, or Cedes to bail me out and ultimately losing any sliver of a chance I once had with Rachel, not to mention having to explain why I was once in jail to possible future employers. I'm thinking let's not and say we did to that scenario.

Then again, if Santana keeps stealing my phone to see who's been talking to me (the woman has no life outside of Brittany and her classes and therefore has to find her entertainment elsewhere when the aforementioned blonde is not around and she's not in class), that could also be dangerous to Rachel. _Santana_ might go over there. I don't even want to _think_ about how that could end.

I contemplate teasing Rachel about this for about two seconds before deciding against it. She might have a heart attack. I know I would, if Santana didn't already know where I live and come over unannounced to steal from my very limited stores of food all the time. And if Rachel is in the hospital and/or dead, that's going to make it very hard for me to woo her (into being my friend, of course). So no on that tease.

I glance at the clock. I'm actually on break right now, technically. Yay for getting through a quarter of your workday by staring at your phone. Before I can change my mind, I fire off a quick text: _Aw, but I was looking forward to scouring the city one apartment at a time this week. ;)_

And before I can drive myself nuts waiting for a reply, I drum my fingers on the desk, set my phone down, and hurry to the break room to retrieve my morning granola bar. One of the grouchier dance instructors grunts at me from behind his coffee mug and I smile briefly. There's really no point in trying to make conversation with this guy, but I'm going to try anyway, because really, the longer I'm waiting for a reply text with nothing to do, the crazier I will go. I munch on my granola bar.

"So. How's your morning going?" I ask lightly.

He narrows his eyes at me and lowers the mug enough so I can see his grey mustache.

"That's 'how's your morning going, _sir_' to you, young lady," he growls.

Seriously? How did this guy just remind me of Sue Sylvester and my father all at once? I shudder and I'm not sure which comparison repulses me more. I plaster a smile on my face again, used to this game by now.

"I apologize. How has your morning been, sir?" I repeat, and he nods approvingly.

"Fine," he grumbles, and takes another drink.

Well, this has been fun. I mentally roll my eyes, since he would probably decapitate me if he saw me actually do it, and head for the door.

"Nice talking to you, sir."

He grunts.

I remember Brittany referring to him as Oscar once, though I'm pretty sure that's not his name, and I start to giggle until I get back to the desk and see that my phone is blinking. I practically catapult into my seat, tossing the granola bar aside, and reverently lift my phone, praying it's who I think it is.

_Hahaha And what did you plan to do if you found me before the party? – Rachel_

I have grinned too many times in the past three days. My cheeks are starting to hurt. I don't care.

_You have a guest room, right? ;) But seriously, thank you. This will make my Saturday unbelievably easier._

Her reply comes through within a minute: _Of course. I can't have my guest of honor getting lost, now can I? ;)_

I read those three little words over and over and my smile just keeps growing every time. My ears feel really hot and I'm pretty sure I'm red down to my neck, but it's totally worth it. Besides, nobody is even in the lobby right now except for me. This is between me and my cell phone.

_I'm your guest of honor? I'm…honored. ;D_

This is another thing about texting: the emoticons. I thought about just putting a winking face, but then she might think I was making fun of her, when actually I really am honored (and completely psyched and flattered). Even though I am being a _little_ snarky; I can't help myself, I am just enjoying the hell out of teasing her. So I figured the grin couldn't hurt. People usually think you're actually sticking your tongue out when you put that one (Brittany once refused to talk to me for an entire day until Santana got her to explain and we cleared things up). So that was out of the question.

I'm so busy waiting on tenterhooks to see if my text went over well that I don't notice someone entering until they're practically on top of me and hit the bell. Then I jump about a mile high and put my hand over my heart, trying to slow it down as I glower at the intruder, recovering my HBIC expression fairly easily after years of practice. The smile that greets me doesn't falter—and I'm even more caught off-guard.

"Connie?" My voice is filled with disbelief I'm not bothering to hide. Seriously? What, is my sister stalking me now? Emails, phone calls, and now showing up at my work?

"Hey, Quinnie!"

I flinch. No one but Mom is allowed to call me that, because (a) she's the only one who's allowed to make me feel like a five-year-old and (b) she's the only person I can't slap for saying it. My glare intensifies.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss, glancing around the empty lobby like my boss could come out of the woodwork at any moment. Not that he'd really care. I just don't want her here.

"Well, I figured since you've been too busy with work and classes to have lunch with me, I'd come visit you," she says sweetly, her obnoxiously green eyes twinkling at me. I'm not really sure how she got the green. I think it must be from Mom's side, because my father's side has none of that going on. It's all hazel and blue and brown—no hint of green. Genetics are weird.

Like, why is she so tall? She's nearly Brittany's height, and all the other Fabrays are fairly average in that aspect. I'd say she's adopted, except our hair is almost the same color. I've always liked my hair, so of course that makes me want to heave.

I'm getting distracted here. Oops.

"At my workplace?" I deadpan, and I'm briefly glad I got sidetracked. Makes it seem as though I was waiting for her to realize this on her own.

"Well, it's not as though I could bother you in class, silly!" she says with that tinkling little laugh that makes me want to deck her every time.

"Right. Because it's not like I'm busy at work, too," I mumble, and surreptitiously slide my phone into my pocket.

She notices, though. I see her eyes narrow and catch the movement, but her congenial mask slides back into place with ease, and I'm reminded why we're sisters yet again. She chose the sweet, ditzy route; I chose the harsh, intimidating one. We both get the job done, however, and that's why I brace myself for some major manipulation. I arch my eyebrow in challenge.

"So?" I prompt, and it's not hard to sound impatient when I _am_. I was busy, damn it. "What's so urgent that it couldn't wait until I was available?"

"Quinnie!" she chastises. "You've been in Yonkers—" I flinch "—for almost three weeks now. Don't you think it's time we got around to catching up?"

I smirk, because sometimes she just makes it too easy. "Oh, well, please, go on. What's new in the world of housewives? Laundry detergent still winning those extra-tough battles with grape jelly stains?"

Her gaze flickers away from me and I bask in triumph. I struck a nerve.

"Quinnie, being a stay-at-home mom is just as valuable as pursuing a career," she rebounds, and decides to test me a little bit. "It was good enough for Mom all those years."

"Yes, and now she's going to cosmetology school," I retort, reminding her, and I so want to beam with pride because when my mom told me that after two years playing secretary (much like me, but I'm also going to school, so there)? Let's just say it's a _major_ score for feminism when you get my mom to realize women aren't useless.

Connie frowns for real for a moment. I know she doesn't approve of Mom's choice. Of course, she doesn't approve of anything Mom does, ever since the divorce. I scowl back.

"Yes, well. I've picked up a part-time job editing Columbia's school newspaper myself, so you two aren't the only ones contributing to the workforce," she replies, and I'm stunned.

Seriously. _Connie_, get a job? Who told her she could do that? I wonder if it was Dad or Todd. Which one of them wanted this, and why? A job gives a woman far too much independence for them to give permission lightly. In fact, the plan for me was to become a beautician until a wealthy husband picked me up, at which point I could close my salon, but still have some of my own money in case he turned out not to be as Christian as Daddy once thought.

Yep. My family is _that_ screwed up.

Anyway, I'd be impressed and say Connie broke the rules, but she would never. It's not in her nature. Even though, honestly, she'd be the best English professor on this planet—hell, the best journalist—if she would just grow a backbone and do it.

"Oh, really?" I ask, and my eyebrow hikes higher. "Does Daddy Dearest suspect a divorce on the horizon? Or is Todd just loosening your chain a little bit?"

She flounders, gaze bouncing away again. "Todd felt we could use the extra income, that's all," she mumbles, and it reveals so much.

Money troubles. Uh oh. Daddy isn't going to be pleased with wealthy husband.

"Speaking of Todd, he's looking forward to seeing you again!" Connie says brightly, diverting my attention. I let her, if only because I want to see where this goes. "And little Jimmy has gotten so big since the last time you saw him; you'll be amazed, truly. You should come over for dinner sometime this week, spend some time with the family."

My eyes immediately narrow. "And would this little get-together happen to involve a certain intolerable man we both know and one of us hates?"

Her expression goes from genial to scolding again, and I smirk when I realize how much exercise I'm giving her face. It's been skipping back and forth so much during this exchange I'm surprised she hasn't just given up.

"Quinnie, you don't hate him."

I shrug. "He hates me."

"No, he doesn't," she says soothingly, reaching as though to put a hand on mine. I jerk my hands away, adjusting my shirt as though that's what I'd been intending on the whole time. I'm not sure if that's where the tightness in her voice comes from when she continues or not. "He loves you very much. You know, he asks about you constantly. He's simply…concerned about the path you've taken."

This catches my attention immediately. I hear her voice dip when she says it, as though the nonexistent people in the room will realize what she's referring to instantly upon hearing the words and become shocked and appalled, no matter how vague they are. She's still so concerned with appearances she can't just come out with it, even in an empty room.

I can't argue with her about me and our father hating each other or not—she won't back down on that no matter what. But I've just found my way back on top of this conversation. I smirk.

"The 'path' I've taken?" I snort. "You mean getting knocked up, or being gay?"

She blanches. My smirk is twisted, the HBIC in me enjoying herself a great deal. I admit she deserved this little stretch.

"He understands that your pregnancy was an unfortunate mistake that you learned from, and he has truly forgiven you," she says quietly.

I notice how she says 'he.' She hasn't forgotten, or forgiven, despite my pregnancy having _nothing_ to do with her. She's really doing this as a favor to my father. Doing Daddy's dirty work. I scoff.

"I'm sure he has," I say derisively.

Connie's frown deepens briefly before she turns back into that soft-spoken, understanding older sister, and I think she hasn't had enough practice using her mask of late. She's been very revealing today, though I wonder if it's because I'm her sister. It does make it slightly easier to read her, all those years of experience. I shake my thoughts off as she continues, ignoring my previous words.

"However, your…lifestyle choices…they concern him a great deal. He is hesitant to welcome you back into the family, if you continue such sinful—"

I interrupt with a disdainful laugh. "Really? Welcome _me_ back to the family? Mom already did that; back to our _real_, supportive family, where you don't get smacked down for hoping for more than being someone's trophy wife or just for being yourself," I snap. I'm more than aggravated at this point.

"Who you are," she mocks, voice raising a little now, "has led you on a path to damnation and Daddy fears God won't forgive you this time."

She opens her mouth to say more, but that just about does it. I sharpen my glare and shoot up from my chair forcefully, and she looks mildly alarmed. Her eyes widen, just a fraction. Good. She should be scared. I'm furious.

"_God_ made me who I am," I snarl, locking our gazes and not letting her out of this stare down. "If He doesn't love me for that, then He's a bit of a hypocrite, don't you think?" She stares at me. "I already know Daddy is, but he does _not_ have the final say in who is damned or who is forgiven or whatever. And he _certainly_ doesn't get to decide what's right for me, particularly after what he did to our mother. Or have you forgotten about his little bimbo on the side?"

She swallows, fumbling for words. "Mom wasn't fulfilling her duty as—"

"Oh, please. We both know she would've taken down the moon if it would've made him happy. The only thing she wouldn't sacrifice for him was us," I say, gesturing between us. "And I certainly don't see anything wrong with that."

Her eyes flash and then she's standing, too, hissing, "You mean _you_ were the only thing."

I'm actually surprised. Unlike my outburst, hers is showing vulnerability. She may as well be rolling onto her back and surrendering at this point, and she seems to realize it, because she's automatically trying to compose herself, hiding her jealousy and resentment from me. I wonder if it's because she was closer to Mom when we were younger. I was Daddy's girl, and now that we've switched, it's bothering her. She wants both parents, but the fact that Mom picked me is leaving Connie spiteful toward both of us. And maybe this is precisely why she sided with the cheating, misogynistic bastard.

Before I get a chance to test my theory a little further, our concentration on glowering at one another is broken by a calm, familiar voice.

"Is everything all right out here, Quinn?"

My eyes shoot to Jordan, Brittany and my balding boss, the owner of the dance studio. He is normally about as chipper as they come, much like Brittany herself, but at the moment he looks wary of the woman across from me. Everyone knows we're sisters the instant they look at us, but instead, he focuses on the tension between us and immediately becomes protective of his employee. I like him all the more for it.

I glower at Connie, then turn a softer look to my boss. "Everything's fine, sir. I was just saying goodbye to my sister."

She sniffs at me and says, thinly, "Yes, I should get going. I'll talk to you later, Quinnie."

There is so much promise and threat in that sentence that I almost shudder, and I'm relieved when she steps back out into the cold, briefly allowing it to permeate the room, and then I do shudder, rubbing my arms. Jordan smiles at me.

"That was your sister?" he prompts, looking after her with interest.

"Sadly, yes," I grumble, seating myself professionally as he approaches with a file I hadn't noticed a moment ago.

He chuckles ruefully. "Friendly thing, isn't she? Anyway, if you wouldn't mind, I need you to edit this through and fax it to the number on the back."

He hands me the file and I smile genuinely. "No problem, sir."

He pats me on the shoulder before trailing away, and I hear him mumbling, "I'm gonna miss that one."

I smirk to myself and set the file before me, flipping it open and running my hand restlessly through my hair in an attempt to relax after the grating presence of my sister intruded on the bubble of happiness I'd built up over the past few weeks. Speaking of which….

I pull my phone from my pocket and my heart races when I see it blinking.

_Haha Very punny, Fabray. That one take you long? ;) – Rachel_

I'm grinning in an instant.

XXXXXX

"Your sister's a jerkface," Mercedes comments to me as she lifts a violet sweater from the rack, scanning it for only a moment before putting it back.

I open my mouth to reply, amused by her offhandedness, but I'm distracted by a vibration.

_I feel like winks should simply be a given in our texts at this point. – Rachel_

It's been a couple days since The Ambush, as I like to call it, and to my delight, I haven't seen hide nor hair of my sister since then. I have, however, gotten very, very adept at texting. Which has everything to do with a certain brunette I practically haven't stopped talking to since that day. It seems like we never run out of little things to talk about.

Sometimes she'll even send me something along the lines of '_Don't EVER eat takeout from that Chinese place on 7__th_.' These random little observations completely make my day every time, and I hope the fact that I can't seem to stop finding reasons to text her, too, makes her feel the same way. Sure, it's improbable, but a girl can hope.

I giggle to myself and shoot off a reply: _Aw, you don't want to see my smiling face anymore?_

When I look up, still smirking, Mercedes is pursing her lips at me. Anyone who knows her knows that this is a bad, bad sign. So I smile innocently, folding my hands before me like a good little Christian girl, and ask, "What?"

She rolls her eyes. "Nothing. Anyway, I really think you should take the 'ignore it, and it'll go away' approach. Your sister's obviously…."

Her voice trails to the back of my mind as another text comes through, and I pull it covertly from my pocket. I bite my lip to keep from giggling again.

_Unless you have recently become a Simpsons character without my knowledge, I highly doubt you are that yellow._

I'm surprised she's even seen enough of that show to know that the characters are yellow, but I guess it would be a pretty big pop culture thing for her to miss, so I put: _Think I could rock the blue hair?_

I smirk to myself and go to tune back in to Mercedes, but I'm surprised to feel another vibration in my hand. I can't hold back my enormous grin this time, or the little giggle that escapes my throat, when I read it.

_Don't you dare change a thing, Quinn Fabray!_

I'm blushing because I'm delighted and flattered, but the giggle comes from the fact that…well, I can totally imagine her saying this to me. Hair toss, hands on hips, eyes ablaze—the whole shebang. The image makes me chuckle with amusement.

I'm about to text her back, but I realize the hum of Mercedes's voice in the general background noise has…faded. I look up gradually. Folded arms, pursed lips, and diva eyebrow cock. Oh, crap, I'm in trouble. I give her a big, cheesy grin, but she only raises her eyebrow higher and snatches my phone from my hands, and I squeak in protest and—really, what is _with_ my friends and doing that?

"Hey, I was talking—" I start, but Cedes gives me the 'talk to the hand' signal.

"You were supposed to be talking to _me_, since this is our weekly shopping trip," she reminds me as she holds the phone to her ear, and I pout at her.

It does no good, because she isn't looking. Instead, she taps her foot and stares intently at a V-neck across the aisle while she waits through rings. When she perks up, looking more attentive, I dart to try and listen in, but she waves me off instantly and again I'm pouting. Santana let me eavesdrop.

Okay, just sounded like a five-year-old in my own head. Not good.

"Hey, Rachel? It's Mercedes," she announces, voice dripping with attitude, and I glare at her in warning. "Look, girl, I'm real excited you're back in our lives now and we're gonna be seeing you soon and all, but if you could just stop monopolizing Quinn for like a half hour? That would be great."

I look around to see what I can throw at her. Shirts are too light. Maybe a hanger will leave a dent….

"Well, she is; we're shopping," she says. A long pause. "I'm going sort of down the same road as my parents. Yeah, dentistry. I'm surprised you remember." I see her eyes sparkle, but she scowls to cover it. "Well, you didn't seem to think that in high school."

Nope, hanger's too good. Unless I use it to strangle her. Something heavier. Where's a cinder block when you really need one?

"Oh, well…thank you," she says shyly, and I look at her sharply, only to see her grinning and laughing. "Thank you! Okay, girl, stop, really. I wasn't _that_ good." She cackles.

I scowl, slipping closer to reach for my phone, moving into Mercedes's line of vision. I raise my eyebrows pointedly and she waves me off, still grinning into the phone.

"No way!" she says, and starts off down the aisle, my phone still in her possession.

I have to stare for a minute before I trudge after her. Did that really just happen?

XXXXXX

"No way! Seriously?" I've heard this about a hundred times. "Go on with your bad self!"

I'm about to kill someone. Go ahead, guess who. Her name starts with an 'M.' I dragged her off to the food court a little bit ago, because if I didn't start stuffing my face, I was going to start snapping at her for being such a hypocrite. And, yeah, okay…for taking away my phone so I couldn't talk to Rachel anymore.

I might be a little jealous. But only a little.

I decide to sacrifice a fry in my anger.

"Well, that is just great, girl. Yeah." She nods and grins, and then looks a little disappointed. I scowl. "Do you have to? Oh, all right, you big superstar."

What? She's leaving? My head jerks up in protest, and I see Cedes smirk at me briefly.

She cackles again. "Okay, I'll ask her. Hold on." She puts her hand over the mouthpiece and grins widely at me. "She wants to know if she should ever expect to hear _your_ voice when she sees your name on the caller ID."

Okay, it is not my fault that my friends keep—wait, what? She wants me to call her? I'm pretty sure my tail would be wagging if I were a dog right now. Weird analogy, but you get the point.

I nod and say meekly, "Yes."

Mercedes pulls the phone back up and says, "She said yes." She laughs again, winking at me, and informs me, "She says she's looking forward to it."

Oh, God, blushing so hard. Rachel wants me to call her. Not just random texting. Call. Her. Like on the phone, hearing each other's voices, in a real conversation. This day is officially full of win.

"All right, bye, girl. Talk to you later," Cedes says, smiles at the phone, and hands it back over to me. I slide it possessively on the other side of my tray of fries, but she doesn't seem to notice as she chuckles. "You know, at first when you told me, I had no clue what you saw in that girl. But now? She's a real charmer." She grins.

I smile back, but I'm distracted from answering when I feel the phone vibrate against my stomach. It startles the hell out of me, since I thought she was going off to do all her important theater business, but I quickly take a look. My heart thumps a little faster.

_My phone's not ringing yet. ;) Kidding, but call me soon._


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Okay, a break from sisterly drama, some Brittana, and big steps for Faberry. :) And as a nice little tease…next couple chapters are _huge_ for them. Buahaha. (And sheesh, you guys, you'd think this story was made out of cream puffs topped with like…chocolate sauce. :P)

I feel like I should add that this story stops following canon completely after 'Duets' but I'll still include some things that did happen anyway.

Oh! And yes, I have a Tumblr now. It's linked on my profile.

**Chapter 6**

"I can't believe she said that to you, Q. That's awful."

"Well, that's Connie," I offer to Brittany's deep pout, and smile covertly at Mercedes when I spy Santana reaching to squeeze her distraught roommate's hand.

"I still find it hilarious that she thinks _you_ are the vile sinner of the family," Santana says, and I've known her long enough to recognize it for what it is: a means of distraction. It doesn't work. Me and Mercedes are giggling behind our beer bottles already as Brittany's smile grows shy and Santana's hand stays over top of hers. "The only people I can think of who are more prudish than you are her and Mother Theresa."

"Which obviously means I should renounce my sinning ways and become a nun," I reply, rolling my eyes, because that's the way Connie sees it.

Anyone she views as being less virtuous than herself is automatically labeled a sinner who will burn in hell and eternal disgrace. The only way I could ever dig myself out of my black hole with her is to swear off women (and, well, sex in general) and don a habit. No freaking way that's ever going to happen, especially now that Rachel is back in my life. I may have no hope for a romantic relationship with her, but I'm keeping my options open just in case.

"Oh, but then _you'd_ probably be the uptight one," Mercedes points out. "I'm telling you, there's no way to win with that girl."

"I don't know about that. Get her wasted, you might unleash some of those wild oats that have got to be screaming for a way out," Santana suggests with a grin, and says to a contemplative-looking Brittany, "Too bad she didn't hang around us in high school. One sleepover with us and she'd have been corrupted for good." She lofts her beer toward me. "Worked on Q."

Brittany smiles tightly and tugs her hand out from beneath Santana's, reaching for her beer instead. I can tell the reference to our high school years is what's upsetting her. As I said before, it wasn't the best time for their relationship, and the reminders only pull her farther away from finally giving in and forgiving Santana. I decide to sweep in with a rescue for my Latina friend with a shake of my head.

"You did not turn me gay, Santana," I bite out, rolling my eyes. "If anything, hearing the two of you—and I'm not just talking about while you _talked_ about all the sex you had—had me locking my closet door shut and then slipping the key through the crack."

Mercedes laughs, but Santana just smirks. "Keep telling yourself that, Fabray."

I roll my eyes again. "Anyway, I don't think it's possible to corrupt Connie. Her oats were domesticated and placed in symmetrical rows in order of size by the time she turned three."

"_Everybody_ has at least a little naughty to their nice," Santana counters.

"You could use a little nice to your naughty sometimes, Sanny," Brittany comments, and Mercedes and I laugh when Santana opens her mouth as if to protest before simply shrugging and taking another haul off her beer.

She grins at us when she's finished, and Mercedes clears her throat for attention.

"I've said it before, I'll say it again: the best thing you can do with Connie is just ignore her," she reasons. "She's gotta get sick of stalking you sometime, and talking to her clearly only leads to migraines for everyone. She's obviously never gonna see things the way you do."

We all pause to process those words of wisdom, and I think she's right. I have from the beginning, but I was a little too busy texting to really think about it until now. Speaking of which, I wish my phone would vibrate.

Ahem. Mercedes is right. It's always been that way with Connie, ever since we were little. She'd complain about having to do the dishes or some other stupid little chore like that by herself, but as soon as I stepped in to help by drying or putting them away or something, she could not stop nitpicking. 'You're not doing it right!' was something I heard screeched at me _a lot_ back when I still bothered trying to please her. I don't know why I'm even thinking of trying to interact with her now, when I don't live in the same house as her, so it's not even close to being a necessity.

Family bonds, probably. Ugh.

"As in, the right way," Mercedes says suddenly, cutting into my thoughts and startling me into a laugh with all three of them.

"Cedes is right," Brittany agrees when we recover, and she shoots this huge smile at me that's already making me blush even though she hasn't said anything yet. "You should focus on happier stuff. Like Rachel."

I knew I had a reason to blush. My gaze drops to my beer so I can hide the massive grin rising up on my face, but I can still feel Brittany's eyes on me.

"And how is Ms. I Don't Have Time For Those Pesky Commoners?" Santana drawls, and something about the way she says it makes me pause.

I don't get to think about her tone much, though, because Mercedes interjects harshly, "More like Ms. I Don't Have Time For The People Who Treated Me Like Crap In High School."

I flinch, because…well, I'm most certainly one of them. I feel Mercedes rub my shoulder in a comforting motion when she realizes how stricken I look, but it doesn't help. I still feel guilty as hell, and I know I should, that I deserve to feel this way, but that doesn't make it any less unpleasant. Especially since it's been almost a week since she came back into my life and I _still_ haven't apologized for the way I treated her. I plan to, don't get me wrong, but I've just been waiting for the right moment, and doing it over text seems like…a pansy ass thing to do.

_Hey, Rach, btw, sorry for being a bitch in high school. – Quinn_

Yeah, no.

And you might say that doing it over the phone is at least a little less pansy-like, but—

"And Quinn wouldn't know how she is, since it's been two days and she _still_ hasn't had the guts to call," Mercedes outs me with a disapproving frown, and I level a glare at her over my beer bottle as both Brittany and Santana make disbelieving noises.

"But she wants you to," is Brittany's protest.

"Fuck's sake, Fabray, what happened to 'want, take, have'?" is Santana's.

I hunch to try and hide behind my beer bottle. I won't go into all the reasons this movement is ridiculous, but it makes me feel better, okay? Mercedes is arching a brow at Santana.

"Did you just quote 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer'?" she scoffs.

"Buffy was kind of our thing when we were younger," I mumble grudgingly, and Brittany grins.

"We went to Puck's Halloween party as characters when we were…um…."

"Thirteen," Santana supplies gently.

"Oh, yeah." Her frown only lasts a millisecond before she's practically bouncing in her seat again. "Q was Buffy and S was Faith, and I got to be Anya."

"I'm surprised you two weren't Willow and Tara," Mercedes comments to them, and Santana scoffs.

"Like I would ever stoop to portray Willow 'I Was Evil For Three Episodes But Now I'm All Better' Rosenberg? Faith is way more badass," she says decisively.

"I always thought Tina should be Tara," Brittany ponders. "But then she lost her stutter. I wish she would've found it again."

Mercedes snorts, swiveling to face Brittany. "Wait, you had characters picked out for the glee club, too?"

"Yeah! Puck was—"

"Okay, can we not go there?" I finally speak up, and I'm rewarded with pouts from both Brittany and Mercedes. I pointedly look at Santana while I say, "We liked Buffy when we were younger, Faith's motto was kind of Santana and my thing and the inspiration for our Head Bitch attitudes, and for your information, I do know how Rachel is. She's fine, although she had a bad server at Starbucks this morning."

They all stare at me and I feel the urge to hide behind my beer bottle again. Santana is the first to break from the spell.

"Okay, first of all, the fact that you totally could've gotten out of the 'you are a damn coward' conversation if you had just shut up and let us talk Buffy, but instead went out of your way to bring Berry up?"

She gapes at me, in shock that I didn't milk that interruption for all it was worth. Come to think of it, I can't, either. What is wrong with me? Santana shakes her head, turning to Brittany as she mutters, "I can't even—" and her roommate reaches to sympathetically pat her hand, a small pout on her lips. Santana visibly lightens up as she turns back to me.

"Second, _that's_ what you two text about? No. Lives."

"Oh, right, like you're one to talk. Stealing my phone every time we go out to lunch just to see who has called me definitely makes you the hippest social leper _I_ know," I snark back, and she bristles, growling at me.

"No violence," Brittany cuts in firmly, just as Santana has opened her mouth to scratch back at me.

"Yeah, just chill, you two," Mercedes adds, and Santana reluctantly eases back in her seat. I fold my arms and pout, because it's been quite a while since San and I have had a good bitch fest at one another. Still, I don't add anything to further provoke her, and Santana only huffs before continuing her list.

"Third, what do you mean 'when we were younger'?" She looks completely affronted. "Buffy still kicks ass, and don't think I won't steal your phone and cut off all communications with Berry for the ninety-seven hours plus bathroom breaks it takes to get through all seven seasons to remind you of that."

Her unwavering dedication to that show is both kind of adorable and slightly creepy. Mercedes seems to be leaning more toward the latter, however, since she's wearing that look she sometimes does when Santana or Brittany or even I do something stupid or crazy. It plainly says, 'How am I friends with these pot-smoking freaks?'.

Brittany, on the other hand, is definitely leaning toward the former, and I want to smile when I spy her looking at Santana with big sparkling blue eyes and a smitten smile. I don't, though, because I don't want to die.

Instead I say seriously, "Buffy still kicks ass," before taking a swig of my beer.

Santana mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'whipped already' before saying, louder, "And fourth, you are a damn coward."

I glare at her. "I am not a coward, I've been..." I squirm. "Busy."

Santana blinks at me, but Mercedes is the one to glance around our table and say dryly, "You're right. You are so busy. I don't even know what we were thinking, suggesting you call her when you're clearly so swamped."

Brittany and Santana are snickering and I grunt irritably.

"What are you so afraid of?" Britt asks gently, when their giggles have died down, and I'm about to answer her seriously, but Santana cuts in with more of her bitchiness.

"You need somebody to hold your hand?" she mocks, then reaches across the table. I instantly lean back. "Here, give me the phone, I'll call the midget."

"Ah, ah," Mercedes cuts in. "Rachel said she wanted Quinn herself to call. No funny business."

"It's the dialing part she seems to be having a problem with, though," Santana retorts and I sneer at her.

"Don't feel bad, Q. That took me a while to figure out, too," Brittany says comfortingly.

Oddly, this doesn't make me feel better.

Santana shoots Brittany a soft smile that lasts only a fraction of an instant, but it's enough for her to get serious when she looks back at me. Or, well, as serious as Santana Lopez gets. She's no softie, I'll have you know, and I'm in for some tough love.

"Look, Q, you're gonna have to grow a pair soon if you—"

"Hey, I don't mean to interrupt."

Yay Interrupting Dude! You are my he—oh, shit. He's looking at Brittany with that sly smile guys get when they're about to ask you out. They'd like you to think it's shy, but I've learned from years of watching Puck in high school that it's really the smile of 'I'm thinking something sleazy about you and I like it.'

Santana notices, too, and she's instantly bristling, raising up in her seat and pinning him with her laser gaze. His eyes are on Brittany's sparkling blue.

"But do you wanna dance?" he asks, and Brittany gives him a once-over.

I know this isn't to ascertain whether she finds him attractive, but rather to see if he's a suitable partner. Brittany has this thing about dancing with people who don't know what they're doing, which is why she often refuses to dance with anyone at Echo but me or Santana. But this guy looks like he might be buff and lithe enough for her to accept.

"Sure," she says chipperly, and hops off her stool. She smiles at me and Mercedes. "Be back, guys."

Mercedes and I offer her awkward smiles as she trots off with the smiling asshole, unintentionally leaving us with the biggest conversation sucker the world could ask for. Seriously, whenever this happens, Santana becomes this black hole, a vacuum of everything happy or bright in the universe. It's like coming face-to-face with a Dementor.

Why am I such a dork?

Santana is glaring down her beer bottle, looking as though she might crush it in her fist if she was strong enough to break the thick glass, and I exchange a glance of worry with Mercedes. She leans forward hesitantly and I follow her lead, smiling sympathetically at our angry friend.

"Hey, it's just a dance, right?" Mercedes says gently.

"It's nothing, S," I add firmly. "She wants y—"

"I don't know what you bitches are talking about," she snarls, and then she's up and off her stool, leaving it wobbling in her wake as she disappears into the crowd with her half-finished beer. Mercedes sighs.

"My turn to stay and make sure she gets home safe," she mumbles unenthusiastically. "Great."

Oh, yeah. Another perk of Brittany dancing with someone else or dating someone else—Santana likes to get so trashed she can't even remember her own name. Mercedes and I have split the duty of staying at the bar to keep an eye on her and get her home since I got to New York. She'd apparently been shouldering the duty herself for quite some time.

"I'll stay if you want," I offer, shrugging. It's no big deal to me, not like I have a girlfriend at home, and this week my homework load has been surprisingly light.

"No, Santana was right," she says and locks me under her fiercest diva stare. I want to hide behind my beer bottle again. "You need to suck it up and call Rachel, and I think we both know it'll be a little easier with some liquid courage in you." She glances down at my bottle meaningfully.

I gulp and look down as well, abruptly deciding to toss back the rest of it, but she sees my intent and snatches it away. When I gape at her, affronted, she says, "But not _too_ much liquid courage. We don't need a repeat of what happened to Mr. Schuester."

She has a point.

XXXXXX

I can do this. I can. I can, I can, I can.

I can't.

Yes, I can. Think like Brittany. Rainbows are love, unicorns exist, cats read diaries, and I _can_ call Rachel Berry, like…the Little Engine That Could. Only it's not a hill, and I'm not an inanimate object that was personified for the purposes of children's literature.

I am Quinn Fabray, though. Head Bitch In Charge, Ice Queen. 'Want, take, have.' 'Grab the bull by the horns.' 'Seize the moment, cause tomorrow you might be dead.' 'You think this is hard? Try catching a professional midget wrestler without spandex—_that's_ hard!' 'It's all about the teasing and not about the pleasing.'

Though I think I've 'teased' enough, it's been two days, after all. Okay, I can do this.

I seat myself cross-legged on my new grey-blue loveseat and swoop up my phone from the coffee table, hitting Rachel's number and the 'call' button and drumming my fingers impatiently on my knee as I wait for her to pick up. 'FroMenOrah' actually ended up winning the tiger-striped couch the other day, and the shipping I had to pay was so worth getting it out of my apartment. Santana agreed so heartily with that she actually bought me this loveseat. Perk of having a doctor for a dad, I guess. She's got money just laying around, waiting to be scooped up and thrown at friends for her own benefit.

"Hello, Rachel Berry, may I ask who's calling?"

A grin splits my lips because that is just such a Rachel way to answer the phone and I've missed her voice more than I can say. My stomach is already filled with butterflies, and I fidget with the seam of the cushion as I answer quietly, "Hey, it's me."

Right, like she's going to just _know_ from my voice. I roll my eyes at myself, but as I go to add my name to that introduction, I hear something fall on the other end and my back tightens in alarm.

"Shit!" I hear her hiss, and my eyebrows shoot to my hairline. Rachel swearing is a rarity and it's…_hot_.

"Is everything okay?" I ask anyway, and she clears her throat.

"Oh, yes, fine. I apologize; my brush slipped out of my hand and…anyway, you called," Rachel finishes, and her voice sounds so bright at that end part that even I have to admit she must've been really excited about this.

I grin. "Yeah, sorry it's…been a busy couple of days."

"I understand. I was just about to get into a bath myself, release some tension from the past week or so. I love the people I work with, but sometimes I wish I could tear their hair out without suffering any ill consequences," she says comically, but…she kind of lost me at 'bath.'

She is naked right now. Holy fuck.

Is this a test? This has to be a test, right? It's not a fair one, that's for sure, because every milliliter of blood in my body has just gone to my groin and I'm biting my lip to avoid groaning at the mental image of her on the other end of the line, cell phone to her ear, brushing out her beautiful tresses of brunette hair, candles in the background around the rim of a tub filled with soapy, strawberry-scented water, and—

"Quinn?"

Shit, I just whimpered. _Whimpered_.

I clear my throat hastily. "Yeah, sorry, I'm still here. Uh…but I-I can call back if this is a bad time."

"Oh, no, it's fine," she says easily. I can hear the smile in her voice and it makes me do the same despite myself. "You're on speaker phone, so I won't get you wet."

…

This is _cruel_.

"I-I mean th-the phone. I won't get the phone wet," Rachel corrects swiftly, and the agony I'm feeling dies just a little at the realization of her embarrassment. I'm finally not the only awkward one!

I cannot decide whether to tease her or not. It's so damn tempting, for multiple reasons, one being that it's just in my nature. Another being that maybe if I tease her, she'll flirt back and…no, better shut off that train of thought. I shake my head.

"All right, if you're sure," I say instead.

"Yep," she croaks, and I wonder if she's still feeling awkward. It makes me want to reassure her, but then I hear the water lapping in the background and my mind goes somewhere else entirely. I close my eyes and focusing on breathing for a moment, and evidently I miss an uncomfortable silence somewhere between the water lapping and my breathing evening out, because I hear her blow out, "So…."

A smile twists my lips. "How are you?"

I find it kind of cute that I have to take the lead here. She's been so confident in her replies and interactions with me so far; it's funny to see her falter. It certainly builds _my_ confidence. Even if I am currently squirming on the cushion because I'm talking to her while she's naked and bathing.

Rachel's smile is back. "Oh, much better now, and you?"

"Same," I offer, even though I don't know if she means it's because she's talking to me now or not. That's what I mean, anyway, and it's enough for me.

Another silence settles between us.

"Why do I feel like we were much more adept at communicating when we were texting one another?" she asks, and it makes a laugh trip past my lips.

"I guess because we're used to that? I mean, if you think about it, we never really talked that much in high school, so this is…new," I answer thoughtfully.

"You have a point. We do know very little about one another, besides what we ascertained through years of observation and brief interactions that were almost entirely limited to altercations concerning teenage boys we were ultimately only using as beards."

I love it when she rambles like this. I smile.

"Or at least I was," she adds belatedly.

"Me, too," I assure her, nodding as well even though she can't see me. Yet another silence takes hold, but I'm the one to break it this time. "So…."

"Apples or oranges?" Rachel asks, and I grin.

XXXXXX

"Uh…how about…."

"I am waiting," Rachel sing-songs in my ear.

It's been at least four blissful hours, I think, though I really couldn't tell you what time it is. I've long since moved from the loveseat to my bed, where I'm curled up using a pillow to substitute as a cuddling device. I'm not sure where Rachel is, other than that she got out of the bath a while back and I think she made herself a smoothie at some point since I think I heard a blender.

Anyway, all we've done in that time is toss back and forth questions about which we prefer—of this, that, everything. Movies or books (we both prefer books), food or beverages (food for me—I can't deny my one true love: bacon, beverages for her—I teased that obviously she loves drinks, since she can hardly eat with her veganism, she giggled at that), dogs or cats (dogs for both of us, though we agreed cats would be better for both our lifestyles, and we do love the fluffy things), Sudoku or crosswords (Sudoku for me, crosswords for her, she hates math and, by association, numbers), flashlights or cell phones (we both usually end up using our cell phones to light our way, even though the flashlights are better), etc., etc., etc.

It's so much to take in all at once, and at such a late hour, but I couldn't care less. I'm making a mental book of everything Rachel and I fall a little more every time I add a new page. I never thought I could be this interested in another person, let alone never be put off by anything they say, only ever craving to hear more.

"I'm thinking," I excuse myself with a smile.

"Well, hurry up! I don't have all night, you know," Rachel teases, and I scoff.

"Right, because it's not like we've been talking for—Jesus, it's two-thirty in the morning." I blink and gape at my phone. I haven't stayed up this late since my freshman year of college. I swiftly bring it back to my ear when I hear her talking.

"Is it? Oh, wow. Four and a half hours," she purrs, and I feel a shudder go up my spine. "How ever did you manage to survive it?" There's a grin in her voice.

"Vicodin," I deadpan.

"Quinn!" she scolds, and I can't help but snicker. She isn't amused. "You almost made me spit out my smoothie, and believe me, it is not easy to get smoothie stains out of this carpet."

"Sorry," I giggle.

"Sure you are," she replies, and I hear something metal clinking before a stretch of silence and I arch my brow when I hear fabric rustling.

"Whatcha doing?" I ask curiously.

"Getting in bed. If it's two-thirty, I had better get a start on my beauty rest. I have a party to look fabulous for tonight, you know," Rachel says playfully, and I answer without thinking.

"You don't need it."

The following pause makes me fidget and the butterflies in my stomach aren't flapping in a happy way as I wait for her response. I swallow and try not to make it as audible as I feel like right now. I'm literally holding my breath, and I feel like I'll go blue soon if she doesn't speak up.

"Thank you."

It's so soft I'm sure I wouldn't have heard it if the night wasn't so still and I had been breathing. The air I was holding in rushes out in relief and I smile to myself when I realize how shy Rachel sounded as she said that. She clears her throat a moment later.

"It's still your turn," she prods me, and I chuckle.

"All right, all right. Um…trackpad or wireless mouse?"

"Wireless mouse," she says almost instantly. "The trackpad is convenient, yes, but not so much so when a great amount of scrolling is required."

"I agree," I say simply. "Your turn."

"Hmm. Chinese or Thai food?"

"Chinese," I blurt, and I blush when I hear her giggling. "I hate Thai food."

"I actually knew that," Rachel informs me, still laughing lightly.

I'm curious. "Really? How?"

"My drunken party in junior year. Finn was one of the few, the proud, and the sober—" I chuckle "—and so he used one of my takeout menus to order from the nearest place, which happened to be Thai, to soak up some of the alcohol and ease our hangovers the next morning. I remember him handing you a box, and you took one look at it and dumped it over his head, asking how he could do that to you."

She's laughing her ass off, and I can't help but smile at the sound, even though I'm also blushing like crazy.

"It was better than the idiot deserved, all things considered," I say a little harshly, forgetting for a moment that they were friends back then.

But all she says is, "What do you mean?"

I frown. "Lying to you about his virginity? Leaving it up to Santana, who proceeded to publicly humiliate you with the information, to tell you the truth? Remember any of that?"

Rachel sighs heavily in my ear, deepening my frown. "To be fair, I had kissed Elizabeth once when I was still with him, though shortly after that we…parted on amicable terms. It was better than I could have hoped for."

I am absolutely burning with jealousy right now. Elizabitch. I like Santana's name for her a little too much, I think.

"You couldn't have hoped for a better boyfriend?" I growl.

Rachel's smiling a little, I think, when she says, "It was a long time ago, Quinn."

I grumble my agreement and a now-comfortable silence settles between us, allowing the burning in my chest to fade and give way to a much lighter warmth. I'm completely happy right now, snuggling close to my pillow and listening to Rachel's steady breathing, which is interrupted by the occasional muffled yawn. I hear her shift and smile lazily as she breathes a sigh of contentment.

"Tell me a secret," she murmurs, and I think it's the most adorable thing I've ever heard.

My eyelids droop and my smile stretches, though it goes back down as I try to think of something to tell her and can think of…nothing. My biggest secret from her is one I'm not willing to part with, even if she has spent the last four and a half hours on the phone with me. That doesn't mean she feels the same way, so I'll keep it close to my chest until I'm certain. If I ever am.

"You first?" I offer, hoping she won't be upset.

Rachel is silent for long enough that I know she's thinking, as I was, and then she answers, so quietly I almost don't hear her again, "I didn't always want to be on Broadway."

My eyes are wide open now and I gasp in actual shock. She's silent. Rachel Berry, not want to be on Broadway? I…almost can't even process this information.

"Alert the presses!" I tease, because I literally can't think of anything else to say.

"I'm serious," she chides softly, and I realize she must be sensitive about this.

I shift the phone to my other ear and sigh, pleading gently, "I'm sorry. Tell me?"

Rachel sighs again, and I think she won't answer, but again she speaks, and I'm ready to listen intently. "My, um, my family isn't all that big. My dad has one sibling, his brother, who is the father of the little cousin I told you about once?" I nod into empty air, recalling her cousin they feared had Tay Sachs. "His family lives in Nebraska, so we don't see them very often. My grandparents on that side have long been deceased, and on my daddy's side, there are no aunts or uncles or cousins for me. He was an only child and my grandparents…." I hear her swallow and unconsciously grip the pillow tighter, wishing I could comfort her instead. "They were Catholic, and…didn't approve of their gay son.

"As a result, I never met them. It-it's part of why I've always been so thirsty for a connection to someone, family. Shelby. Anyway, that's not the point. When I turned seven, my grandmother sent me a present. I don't know why or how she even found out where we lived. I suppose she realized that 'the sins of the father' anecdote applied, though she would be sorely disappointed in me now." I want to chuckle at her tone, but only release an amused breath so as not to be disrespectful of what she's sharing with me, which seems to spur her on. "It was the first present I had ever received from anyone other than my fathers, let alone from a relative, and it was…it was a yellow sweater with this fluffy horse on it.

"I instantly became obsessed. I insisted that my fathers get me riding lessons, and they were completely caught off-guard because, up to that point, I had demanded I only receive lessons in areas that would help me achieve my goal of one day lighting up Broadway. But they gave in, and I was dedicated to the lessons for about ten months. My lesson horse was this…chestnut, beat-up mare named Bunny." I smile at the way she says it, so much affection in her voice. "I immediately fell in love. I spent every second I could at that barn, walking her around the grounds and grooming her and riding her, and she was…she was perfect. She was my best friend. Unlike so many people I had met, she would let me talk for hours on end with no impatient huffs or eyerolls. Her ears perked up and her eyes got so bright when I sang to her. And she would let me do anything: crawl beneath her, climb on her back, hug her legs.

"And I had these dreams of becoming a driver. Not like a carriage driver, but in races, like the ones my daddy and his family loved to watch. Harness racing." Rachel sighs and sniffles, and I tighten my arms in alarm when I realize she's crying. I want to comfort her, say something, but she continues, rushing to the end of her story. "But then, um…then Bunny…she colicked and died and I just…I couldn't do it anymore. It broke my heart. So I went back to Broadway."

My heart aches and I feel like I'm back in the choir room, watching her pour her heart and her tears out and I can't do anything about it. Can't hold her, and it's driving me crazy. I blink back my own tears imagining a seven-year-old Rachel going through that heartache, learning what it was like for someone she loved so much to die, and then to go back into school with her head held high while she was bullied and antagonized and….

"I'm so sorry, Rachel," I breathe, and she sniffles again.

"No, it's-it's good. The stage is where I truly belong; I know that now. I just…miss her," she finishes quietly, and I smile sadly.

"Yeah." Not the brightest thing to say, I guess, but it lets her know I'm there, at least. "I know."

Rachel sniffles a couple more times before saying, tone bravely lighter this time, "It's your turn."

I can't cop out this time, that's for damn sure, not after she shared something like that with me. A big part of me wants to break this tension between us with some well-placed joke, except…it wouldn't be well placed at any point right now. I would just end up hurting her feelings, which I definitely don't want. I sigh.

"Um…when I was ten, I got in a car accident with my mom," I say, and I'm not really sure where I'm going with it, but since it's the first thing that came out, I just keep going. "She came to pick me up from school and she was late and…well, shit-faced. I was pretty used to that at home, but it was a surprise so early in the day." I hear her breathing hitch in my ear before picking up again and it soothes me, encourages me to keep talking. "I got in and she started driving and trying to talk to me, but she wasn't paying attention to the road and we were weaving all over the place. I tried to tell her to pull over, but I was scared, you know, and only ten and she just kept going, and then I saw this car coming and I-I grabbed the wheel and turned it and they sideswiped us. And she just started _laughing_.

"I couldn't believe…I was sitting there horrified and she was laughing like it was the funniest thing…. I remember she ended up with a DUI and had to pay for the damage on the other car, and my father was furious at her, but I was glad. I thought she got what she deserved." I swallow the growing lump in my throat. "It didn't stop her, though. Nothing seemed to stop her, until she kicked my dad out and then…I mean, now she goes to AA meetings and stuff, but…every time I pick up a beer or whatever, I just…I think about her laughing and I think, 'I'm going to be just like her.' But then I go ahead anyway, because…what's one drink, right?" I snort humorlessly, but Rachel doesn't join me.

Instead she's quiet, eerily so, and if it weren't for her breathing against my ear, I would think she had hung up on me. It's not deep enough for her to have fallen asleep, either, and I wonder what she's thinking. I'm terrified of what she's thinking. My fists clench around my pillow tightly and my pulse is running wild, and not in the good way it usually does with her. I can actually feel myself start to sweat a little bit.

"Oh, Quinn," Rachel says softly, and I press the phone harder to my ear to listen. "I'm so sorry you had…have to live with that."

I am not going to cry. I refuse. I give her a shaky sigh instead.

"Don't be. Honestly, it's couldn't be less your fault," I say, shrugging.

"I know, I just…it's always difficult to hear something painful has happened to someone you consider a friend, someone you care deeply for. That they live with something you can't even begin to imagine, or try to fix," she replies, and for Christ's sake, I'm _not_ going to cry over this.

"Yeah. Tell me about it," I say wryly, hoping she'll get that I'm referring to what she just told me a little bit ago.

I think she does, because she's quiet and we just lay there in the silence for a long, pleasant moment until I hear her stifle another yawn. It makes me smile, lifts the tension from my chest.

"Maybe we should sleep," I suggest, even though I'd really rather just keep talking to her for…ever.

"I don't wanna," Rachel mumbles, and my God, could she get more adorable? "I like talking to you."

My grin could not get bigger. "I like talking to you, too, but I'll be seeing you at the party later, right?"

"If you're still coming."

"Of course I am. Think I'd miss out on all that crazy organized fun?" I tease.

She yawns. "Good. It won't be as fun without you."

I love sleepy Rachel. She is my new favorite.

"Then I'll see you at the party," I say with a grin. "Text me when you wake up?"

"Mhm," she chirps. "Sweet dreams."

"You, too. I'll talk to you later."

"Quinn?"

My thumb was halfway to reluctantly hitting the 'end call' button when I hear this, and I rush it back to my ear.

"Yeah?"

"Best conversation ever," Rachel mumbles.

My heart swells and I'm grinning till I fall asleep.


End file.
